


Budapest

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [6]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha remembered being worried, being tortured, and facing a small army of enemies with no escape route. Clint remembered pain, confusion about what was real and what wasn't, and the knowledge that he needed to find her. He didn't remember much of anything else. So in the end, they would always remember Budapest differently. Est. Blackhawk, Pre-Avengers, *Vantage Point Universe*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> If you are new to my work, this is another in an increasingly long list of stories in a series that revolves around Clint Barton. This is the sixth multi-chap story so far and there are more to come. This story can be read alone, but you'll get even more out of it if you read the others. :) Though since I write the stories out of chronological order, they can also be read out of order so I leave it up to you :D To catch you up, this story is established BlackHawk (origin of which is in my story "Vietnam") and Phil Coulson is Clint and Natasha's handler. He has a very strong brotherly relationship with Clint which originated when Phil recruited him to SHIELD during the events of my completed story "Youngest In History"
> 
> Enjoy!

_It is the surmounting of difficulties that make us heroes._

**_Louis Kossuth_ **

* * *

Natasha stretched lazily as she woke, her senses recognizing the feel of her sheets and the scent of her pillow and deciding she could wake slowly. It may have also had something to do with the warm mass on the other side of the bed. She yawned and rubbed a hand over her eyes, rolling onto her back.

Clint shifted next to her, but didn't wake. He was sprawled on his stomach, head turned away from her, one arm hidden under his pillow and the other hanging off the bed. She knew better than to wake him. His hidden hand was probably wrapped around his favorite knife, a gift from Coulson.

Instead, she just watched him sleep. He'd returned to the base late last night and had come to see her after his debrief with Coulson. He'd been exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and a weary set to his shoulders. But he hadn't been too exhausted for her to give him a proper welcome home. She smiled as she thought of their late night activities and rolled to her side, propping herself up on her elbow. They'd been together for six months now and she was still fascinated by the affect he had on her. All he had to do was smile that warm smile of his, the one that was crafted just for her, and she melted. Never in her life had anyone ever had that affect on her. She also felt inexplicably safer when he was with her. Whether it was in sleep or in a fight, she knew he had her back no matter what.

She sighed, eyeing the state he was in.

He had a nasty bruise on his left temple and one to match stretching from the top curve of his left shoulder down to just below the shoulder blade. He hadn't had a chance to tell her what had happened yet, but she knew he would. She resisted the urge to brush his hair off his temple so she could see the bruise more clearly and gage its severity. Watching him get injured on a mission was hard. Seeing him come back with injuries she might have prevented if she had been there…was harder. She knew he felt the same. She saw it in his eyes when she came back from Barcelona eight weeks ago with a knife wound on her abdomen.

Her eyes slid down his back to the only lasting mark from his recent debacle in South Africa.

The bullet scar still stood out in sharp prominence on the far left of his back. His hand, formerly ravaged when he'd slipped a pair of handcuffs, had healed nicely leaving only faint scars that would all but disappear in time. The cuts on his face hadn't even left lasting marks, a small mercy she knew he was grateful for even if he'd never admit it. The same was true for the shallow cut that had trailed from under his right eye down to just above the bullet wound. That one had healed the most quickly.

He'd only been cleared for active duty forty eight hours before Fury had assigned him a mission in Bosnia. Natasha had been in St. Petersburg at the time on a mission of her own and had returned a week ago to be told Clint had just been sent out.

 _That_  had been frustrating.

Ever since Fury had decided their skills were to "valuable" to be consolidated into single missions, they'd been forced to get used to saying goodbye a lot. Clint had been on the injured list for the three months following South Africa and had been itching to get back in the game, especially after having to watch her leave on two missions on her own while he was restricted to "light activity".

She knew they'd get used to watching each other leave on missions, but she didn't think she'd ever be okay with it. They'd gotten used to watching each other's backs. She sighed and lay back on the bed. So much had changed in six months.

They'd finally acknowledged and admitted that they were much more to each other than just partners. After Vietnam, it had been easy to make the transition, easier than she'd expected. She knew Coulson knew. Clint had told her about the conversation with his handler on the Fourie mission. She suspected Fury knew, because Fury  _always_  knew. But Clint and Natasha genuinely tried to keep out of the public eye, never showing their true affection unless they were in the privacy of one of their rooms.

Then Fury had split them up and Clint had been sent to South Africa and come home with one of the worst results a covert operative could ever have. Someone had survived to remember his face. Coulson had battled to have Josia Fourie listed as an imminent threat and have a hit issued, but the Council had denied every request. Even Fury hadn't been pleased. Clint was one of the best, if not  _the_  best, agents SHIELD had and as long as Fourie was alive, Clint had a target on his back. Natasha had made it a point to memorize Josia Fourie's face so she would know him if he ever turned up. Knowing that there was someone out there that was hunting Clint, knew what he looked like, and had friends in a lot of places made it even harder to watch him leave on missions without her.

She trusted Phil to watch Clint's back, but Phil wasn't always on the mission with Clint. And when he was, he was never in the field with him. She knew their handler hated that just as much as she did. She knew that he worried right along with her that Fourie would catch up to their archer one day.

The intercom next to her door suddenly buzzed, signaling a call in.

Clint flinched awake, reaching instinctively for his cell phone on the bedside table. He ended up knocking it off onto the ground with a flailing hand. The intercom buzzed again and he turned his bleary gaze towards the door, frowning in confusion.

"Your room or mine?" he asked with a confused furrow in his eyebrows.

Natasha laughed lightly.

"My room," she explained, climbing out the bed to answer the intercom. Clint dropped his face back down into his pillow with a groan. She realized he was still tired. Normally he was more aware than that when he woke up, snapping to awareness quickly. He very rarely, in all the time that she'd known him, woken in sleepy confusion. He had to be sleeping  _very_  deeply, a product over being overly exhausted, and be startled awake for his mind to have that lag time. More common was when he was in the infirmary and they had him on drugs. Pain medication tended to muddle his alertness as well.

She pulled on one of Clint's training t-shirts, one with his last name printed across the shoulders, and pressed down the 'talk' button on the intercom.

"This is Romanoff," she spoke into the speaker.

" _This is your wake up call, training room in 30."_ Coulson's voice sounded a little metallic as it came through the speaker in response.

"Got it," she assured.

" _Test the range of motion on his shoulder. He refused to go to medical for it last night,"_  Coulson went on easily. Natasha smirked at his assumption that Clint was with her. He seemed to be warming up to the idea of them being together, if only slightly.

"I'm fine," Clint announced loudly from the bed, his head still buried in the pillow.

"Will do," Natasha promised, ignoring the claim.

She moved away from the intercom and crawled back onto the bed, leaning over him to brush her fingers gently across the bruise on his shoulder. He flinched away from her fingers and pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a sigh. He stretched his neck from side to side and held his arm out to her.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, taking his left elbow in her left hand and lightly resting her right hand on his shoulder. She slowly started shifting his arm this way and that, keeping a critical eye on his face for any indication of pain.

"I had to jump off a three story roof," he revealed. "The guy I was aiming for broke the landing pretty well, but I still hit the ground pretty hard."

"Is that what this is from too?" she brushed her right thumb across his temple before returning her hand to his shoulder and continuing her examination.

"I might have hit the wall with my head before I hit the ground."

"Ouch."

Clint shrugged and allowed her to carefully inspect the bruise on his temple.

"Didn't break the skin," she observed. "Concussion?"

"Not that I noticed."

She nodded and pulled away.

"I'm gonna shower before breakfast," she announced as she pushed off the bed and moved over to her dresser. She dug around, pulled out fresh clothes, and carried them towards her bathroom. Clint flopped over towards the foot of the bed, searching the ground for the go-bag he'd dropped somewhere last night.

He saw it over towards Natasha's side of the bed and reached for it, snagging a handle and pulling it towards him. He pushed aside a Desert Eagle handgun and dug out fresh boxers, sniffed a t-shirt to make sure it was wearable and pulled out his favorite athletic shorts for training. He bundled his selections and rolled off the bed following her path to the bathroom.

It was more economical to share the shower. Saving water and all that.

* * *

Phil looked up from his breakfast when Clint and Natasha strode into the dining room. They went through the mess line quickly and joined him at their table.

"Morning," Phil greeted.

"Mornin', Phil," Clint smiled.

"Good morning," Natasha responded as well.

"How's his shoulder?" Phil asked the red head.

"Range of motion was good, doesn't seem any worse than a bruise," she reported immediately.

"I'm sitting right here, you know," Clint groused.

He got two equally unrepentant looks that had him rolling his eyes.

"I'll just eat my high protein oatmeal," he decided ungracefully, wondering when they'd united against him.

Neither Natasha nor Phil looked the least bit sorry as they launched into a discussion about Natasha's last mission. Clint pushed his oatmeal around in his bowl and vowed to find some free time to go into the city and get some real food. SHIELD was responsible for feeding too many people to put any real effort into making their food selections anything but healthy. The only exceptions were dinner time. If you were lucky you could snag a hamburger, a plate of spaghetti, or some fried chicken before it was all gone.

He only half listened to Natasha and Phil's conversation as he started spooning the breakfast into his mouth. Mostly his mind drifted to the events of the last six months. A lot of good and a lot of bad things had gone down. He and Natasha had finally done something about all the feelings then been denying/ignoring and he could honestly say he was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. But the dark cloud of Josia Fourie cast a shadow over everything these days. He hoped, in time, he could put that mission and that man behind him. He hated to think he would never be able to go back to South Africa or the beautiful city of Cape Town.

Some nagging feeling in his gut told him that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

It was stressful, feeling like he had a target painted on his back. Josia Fourie was new to running his father's business, though, and Clint could only hope his reach wasn't long enough to make it out of South Africa yet. He still found himself behaving in an even more paranoid fashion that was normal for him. That was saying something. Clint was, by nature, a very paranoid person. When on a mission, he always had eyes on exits, faces memorized, postures analyzed, and threats categorized. These days he found himself studying someone with frightening intensity if they even glanced in his general direction. And god help him if someone had a camera out. Then he was all hoods pulled low over eyes, shifting to shadows, hand brushing the hilt of his knife, and planning all the ways he could get the camera without anyone noticing.

It was exhausting.

He wished the Council had just issued the kill order when Coulson  _and_  Fury asked them to. With Clint directly compromised as long as Josia Fourie was alive, it should have been an easy thing to convince them the man needed to be eliminated.

But Clint knew from personal experience that issues with the Council were  _never_  easy, especially not for him.

And he'd found his way onto their shit list from day one, so he didn't think they'd be too broken up if he ended up dead because of Fourie. They might actually sigh in relief. He  _still_  didn't know what he'd done to piss them off back when he'd first come to SHIELD. Even Phil was clueless about it and Phil was rarely clueless about anything.

Clint sighed deeply. He looked up when he felt Natasha and Phil's eyes move to focus on him.

"What?"

"You okay?" Phil asked carefully.

"Just thinking about Fourie."

"I put in another kill request with the Council yesterday," Phil revealed.

"Like that'll do any good. They'd probably be tickled pink if the bastard managed to off me."

Natasha kicked him under the table and Clint shot her an apologetic glance for the morbid comment.

"Sorry," he offered verbally to Phil.

"I understand that you're frustrated," Phil replied. "We'll get it worked out."

Clint nodded, accepting Phil's assurance.

"Now, we've got some training to catch up on, so let's get our asses in gear. I want fifteen miles out of both of you," the handler announced suddenly. He stood and waited for them to do the same before he strode out of the mess hall.

"I think he likes torturing us," Clint frowned as he and Natasha followed his path.

"You, Clint, he likes torturing  _you_."

* * *

Coulson clicked the lap button on his stopwatch as Clint jogged past him. Natasha was a half a lap behind him and holding steady at her own pace. He glanced over as Fury came to stand beside him. The Director glanced at the stopwatch.

"That a full lap time?"

Phil nodded.

"Damn that kid's fast."

"Always has been," Phil reminded. "He's only gotten faster."

Fury nodded in agreement and they watched the two assassins jog the track in silence.

"The Council said no, didn't they," Phil deduced suddenly.

"Yes. They still don't think Josia Fourie is a big enough threat to merit a kill order."

"He's a direct threat to Clint."

"I realize that," Fury assured. "I did everything I could, but they wouldn't be swayed."

Phil sighed deeply and tracked Clint's progress around the track. Maybe the twenty four, nearly twenty five, year old was right. Maybe the Council did have it out for him. Coulson shook his head. Clint's birthday was next month and he'd be twenty five. Coulson still felt like it was just yesterday that he cornered Clint in that alley and offered him a job. So much had changed since that fateful day in Vienna that had changed both of their lives.

Coulson wouldn't trade a moment of it.

He clicked the lap button on a second stopwatch when Natasha went jogging by. She was pretty fast herself, he mused. Still markedly faster than the average SHIELD agent, just not as fast as Clint. But nobody was as fast as Clint.

"Director, if Fourie starts spreading Clint's description around to his friends…"

"I know, Phil," Fury sighed. "But Fourie is young and the word from our sources says that he's keeping it low key at the moment. He's sticking to Cape Town for now and taking the time to learn how things work. He's barely gotten his feet wet in the smuggling business. So, thankfully, he's got bigger concerns at the moment. I think Barton is safe for now."

Phil nodded in acceptance because there was little else he could do. They stood in silence for a few moments before Fury spoke again.

"You've done good work with him, Phil," the Director praised suddenly. "Six and a half years ago I didn't think he'd ever get to this point and now he's exceeded all expectations."

Phil's eyes widened a bit in shock. That was high praise coming from Fury.

"He's the best we have and I'll do what I can to protect him," Fury promised. "I'll keep someone on Fourie."

Phil nodded his thanks silently.

"Romanoff is coming along nicely too. I was  _certain_  she was going to turn out to be a mistake. Looks like she proved me wrong herself. And Barton was right three and half years ago when he defied us all for her." Fury shook his head, still slightly awed by Barton's audacity when it came to Romanoff's recruitment. "Looks like he's managed to prove me wrong twice."

Phil smiled proudly as Fury strode away and clicked his stopwatch again as Clint ran by.

His agent had a way of doing that. Exceeding expectations and proving people wrong about him. He was so unassuming when he met people, an expert now at being easily forgotten, that he was often underestimated. Even by people at SHIELD. In Phil's opinion, it was his most lethal quality, more lethal even than his aim. Even Natasha, arguable the most effective contract assassin to ever live, had dismissed him the first time she saw him. She'd seen nothing more than the stereotypical body guard he was portraying. She hadn't noticed him until it was too late and he was stopping her assassination attempt cold in its tracks.

To her credit, she never made the mistake of dismissing Clint or his skills again.

The ability he had to blend into any crowd, to be so purposefully unremarkable that he could have a conversation with his target one day and be forgotten about by the time he made his move and killed them, spoke to what a perfect assassin he made. It was a brilliant compliment to Natasha's ability to do the opposite. Where Clint was an expert at being forgettable, she was an expert at being  _memorable_. She walked into a room and  _everybody_  noticed. It was her beauty and the way she carried herself. She drew everyone's eye while Clint deflected it. Her real deadliness laid in her ability to have everyone so distracted by her beauty and poise that nobody even thought about what she was doing, if she belonged there, or why she zeroed in on a specific person so quickly.

They were an ideal team.

And despite what Fury said, they would always be their  _most_  effective together, not apart.

* * *

"Let her come to you before you make your move, Clint," Phil coached from the edge of the sparring mat. "Romanoff, you've got to be unpredictable in your moves or he'll dodge you every time."

Clint bent backwards to a nearly ninety degree angle and watched Natasha's leg skim through the air a breath above him. As she completed the move, he threw his hands back and launched into a quick back handspring, giving himself some room. She pursued him across the mat and feigned a kick with her left leg. She waited until he reacted, ducking down and to his left. Then she spun in the air, hooking her right knee behind his head and sliding her left leg up between his right arm and his body, using his own arm to lock her leg into place. She heard him curse as she threw her weight forward, intending to throw off his balance and spin him backwards in a full turn and ultimately onto his stomach on the ground. She'd already have him trapped and would be able to manipulate him into an arm bar easily.

She realized belatedly that she should have  _known_  Clint's balance wasn't so easily thrown off. He spun with her, as she'd intended, but didn't falter as she'd hoped. Instead, he tightened the arm she'd used to anchor her leg, locking her to him with a firm grip on her waist. Then he accelerated the turn, and twisted them both into the air. They were airborne for a moment, still twisting, and then they hit the mat hard. They both coughed the air out of their lungs when they landed. Natasha, because she'd landed flat on her back. Clint, because her knee had slammed forcefully into his side.

"Disengage and keep going," Phil instructed.

He sighed as he watched his two agents take a moment to breathe and then re-engage in their rather heated sparring match. It was odd sometimes, coaching to two different fighting styles. Clint was an expert at evasion and striking when it would do the most damage. Natasha was brilliant at attacking with such sudden ferocity and intensity that her victims didn't stand much of a chance at mounting a defense.

It was interesting, now, to watch and analyze how the two had rubbed off on each other. Natasha had taught Clint to use his acrobatics and agility and transform them into fighting moves that used his body weight to provide the force. Clint had taught Natasha some wildly agile evasive tactics that Phil himself could never dream of being able to pull off. They'd somehow blended their two fighting styles into something that was utterly unique to both of them.

Phil was thrilled because it made them that much more dangerous in a fight. What was even more fantastic was when they fought  _together_. Every now and then Phil got approval to enlist volunteers to spar against the pair. There was always a ready list of agents wanting to earn some recognition by taking down one of the assassins. Clint and Natasha had never lost, no matter how many agents teamed up against them. And for some reason, Phil still never had trouble finding volunteers. And there was always a crowd gathered during those sessions, gasping in awe when Clint and Natasha got to work, moving so fluidly together they might as well be one being.

That synchronization and fluidity had come into its own after Vietnam. He knew that the shift in the two assassins' relationship had been the difference. They'd always been aware of each other, but now they were  _in tune_ with each other.

And as much as Phil never thought he'd admit it, those two were better together. In every way. Clint was better. Clint was happier. And for Phil, in the end, that's what mattered.

He hadn't been thrilled in the beginning when Clint told him the truth about the two of them. He'd gone so far as to say it was a bad idea. Clint had been firm though and adamant in his decision. So Phil had accepted it because Clint wasn't eighteen anymore. He wouldn't just hop to when Phil told him to do something. Though, in retrospect, Clint had never  _really_  hopped to when Phil told him to do something.

It had taken Phil less time than he thought to come around. The shift in his opinion had started when they got back from South Africa three months ago. He'd been afraid that Natasha didn't feel for Clint what Clint felt for her. That his agent was just a passing interest to her. She  _was_  the Black Widow after all.

That had gone out of his mind the moment he saw the look on her face when he and Clint returned to SHIELD and she found out what had happened.

* * *

_Approximately Three months ago…_

* * *

" _I don't need a damn wheelchair," Clint snapped at the infirmary attendant that had been sent to fetch him. The attendant looked as if he were about to force Clint into the chair himself. An action that Coulson knew would end badly for the attendant if he attempted it._

" _Clint, stop antagonizing the infirmary staff," Phil instructed as he moved down the ramp at the back of the jet and came to stand with his agent. He nodded to the attendant that he could go and that Clint could, indeed, make it to the infirmary of his own power._

_The man nodded and wheeled the empty chair away. Clint smirked in satisfaction and glanced at Coulson, who was giving him a withering glare. He quickly stowed the smirk and shifted his pack on his shoulder._

" _I'll just get going to the infirmary then."_

" _Yeah," Coulson agreed._

_Clint headed for the hangar exit and Coulson turned to thank their pilot. He turned back to see Clint stopped at the door and talking to Natasha. Phil's eyes narrowed and he shifted subtly closer, trying to get a read on the situation._

_He was shocked to see concern in Natasha's eyes, even though her face was as emotionless as ever. He watched her eyes flick down to Clint's wounded side and her eyebrow arched delicately as if to say 'really…_ _**again** _ _?'. Then she grabbed Clint's left forearm, inspecting the gauze wrapped around his wrist and hand. He noticed both of them were careful not to stand too close to each other. Not to do anything normal partners wouldn't do._

_He could see Clint saying something. He seemed to be explaining what happened because her eyes moved from his wrist to the cuts on his face then back down to his bullet wound. He knew the exact moment Clint told her about Josia Fourie. He knew because he saw something flash across her face for the briefest of moments. Something that told him everything he needed to know about how Natasha Romanoff felt about Clint Barton._

_He saw raw fear. Fear for Clint._

_It was then that he knew she cared for Clint as much as the archer cared for her._

* * *

Coulson let his lips quirk as he watched them go tumbling to the mat, locked in a deadly knot of limbs. It had taken time after that, but he'd come to realize that Clint didn't just want Natasha, he  _needed_  Natasha. He needed that relationship in his life. It had taken a little longer for Phil to realize that Natasha needed it too. They made each other better.

He hadn't come out and told them any of his realizations yet. He wasn't sure why he was waiting.

Maybe part of him was still wary that it was a passing thing. But it was a small part, and getting smaller as the days went on. He knew Natasha sensed that part. She'd been tiptoeing around him ever since she'd found out Clint had told him the truth. But she didn't let it affect her job or her professionalism. If Natasha was anything, she was professional.

He needed to talk to her. He'd have to find a time when Clint wasn't around and put her mind at ease. Because, honestly, now that he'd gotten used to the idea, he couldn't imagine those two as anything but what they were now.

Two halves to the same coin.

Or maybe more appropriately, two edges to the same blade.


	2. Together We Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to Shazrolane for the comment :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_Hard things are put in our way, not to stop us, but to call out our courage and strength._

**_Unknown_ **

* * *

"Come on, Clint, don't stop, I know you can do more than that," Phil instructed as he crouched next to Clint's shoulders. His agent pushed himself up into a full plank and then lowered himself back down until his nose was almost touching the floor. Then he pushed himself back up.

"You realize how tiring this is after a full sparring session?" Clint grunted as he lowered himself down once again and then pushed himself back up. "And a fifteen mile run." He went back down.

"Yep," Phil smirked. "But how else are you going to grow up to be big and strong?"

Clint pushed himself back up again.

"You suck."

He went back down.

"Chin up bar is next."

Clint came back up and glared.

"I hate you."

Phil chuckled. He knew Clint could handle the rigorous routine. He'd been doing varying forms of it for years now. He just took pleasure in complaining. The handler turned his head to glance at Natasha, who was doing an intense abdominal work out across the gym. She was focused intensely on what she was doing and didn't even look up, even though he knew she would have sensed his gaze. He turned his attention back to Clint.

"How many is that?" his agent asked as he rose to a plank position and rested there for a moment.

"Not enough. Give me 30 more."

"Slave driver."

"I don't know who you think you're fooling, kid. I know you love this stuff."

"Whatever."

But Clint was grinning as he lowered himself back down.

He pumped out his next thirty pushups with more ease than his complaints suggested he was able and they made their way to the chin up bar. He jumped up with ease and grabbed the bar, shifting his grip before blowing out a breath and pulling himself up.

He'd just completed his first set when Maria Hill, Fury's new assistant, pushed into their training room and strode over to them. She just stared for a moment at Clint with his t-shirt sticking to his chest with sweat. Then Natasha was suddenly next to her, a gleam in her eye that had Hill averting her gaze before she'd even realized what she was doing.

"What do you need, Maria?" Phil asked.

"Director Fury has an assignment," she glanced from Clint to Natasha, "for  _both_  of you."

"Separate gigs at the same time?" Clint asked, snagging Natasha's training towel off her shoulder and using it to wipe the sweat from his face. Natasha gave him a half hearted glare, but didn't make any move to take the towel back.

"No, the assignment is for both of you," Hill clarified.

Phil was pleased to notice that neither of his agents showed an outward reaction to that.

"When?" Phil asked.

"Fifteen minutes."

"We'll be there."

She nodded curtly and strode out of the training room.

It was only after she left that Clint grinned and snuck a wink at Natasha as he moved back to the chin up bar. Natasha's lips quirked slightly in return.

"I can get another set in and still have time to shower," Clint decided as he jumped to grab the bar again.

"I'll meet you at the briefing room," Natasha told Phil before heading out of the gym to clean herself up. Phil nodded in response and watched Clint crank out another round of chin ups. He dropped easily to the ground when he was finished and accepted the bottle of Gatorade Coulson held out.

"Do you know anything about this assignment?" Clint asked as they headed out of the training room.

"First I've heard of it," Phil replied, turning to head the opposite direction of Clint when they hit the hallway. "Don't be late," he called over his shoulder.

"That was  _one_  time," Clint huffed. Coulson smiled as he walked away.

* * *

"This came down from the Council itself," Fury announced as he slid two identical files across the table to each of the assassins. Phil had already received his and gotten a quick rundown of the assignment while he and Fury waited for the two agents to arrive.

"This ought to be fun," Clint muttered under his breath, thinking of his rather spotty history with Council assigned missions. The Andes and Croatia to name a few. Both of which nearly killed him.

He felt Coulson's quelling look and obligingly kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

Fury either didn't hear him or ignored him. The man did a lot of the latter, so Clint assumed that's what it was. He flipped open his file, glancing sideways at Natasha, who'd already opened hers and was perusing it silently.

"Target's name is Alex Moreno," Fury started. "We don't know much, just that he's the leader of the Moreno Organization, the international crime syndicate that's been giving us hell in six different countries. He's got his hands in everything from weapons to assassinations."

"You're hoping to take out Moreno and cripple the organization," Natasha surmised.

Fury nodded.

"We got word that he'll be in Budapest for a fundraiser of all things. Apparently he's got a political ally up for re-election and wants to show support."

"Local police?" Clint asked, studying the details of the event listed in the file.

"Local authorities won't touch him, his reach is too long. There are rumors that he has a few local stations in his pocket."

"And that's where we come in," Clint smirked. "No picture?" He rifled through his file and frowned.

"Nobody has ever gotten Alex Moreno in any picture or video. We have no idea what he looks like," Fury revealed.

"Not even a description?" Natasha arched a surprised eyebrow.

Fury shook his head.

Both Natasha and Clint sat back with contemplative sets to their brow.

"If he's as high society as you think," Natasha reasoned, "it shouldn't be hard to work the crowd and get an ID."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Fury agreed. "That's where  _you_  come in."

Natasha nodded.

"And me?" Clint asked seriously.

"Back up. Once Romanoff confirms the ID, I'm sure she'll have no trouble getting him alone and taking him out. You'll make sure she's not disturbed."

Clint nodded.

"Once we have confirmation that Moreno is down, we have teams in place to move on several of his international operations," Fury continued.

"The event is two days," Phil interjected. "So you're scheduled for wheels up in two hours."

"You're not coming?" Clint frowned.

"I'm coordinating the international teams," Phil explained. "I'll run your op from here."

Clint nodded. It wasn't the first time he'd gone in the field without his handler nearby and wouldn't be the last. It just never felt right not to have Coulson on the other side of his comm. At least he'd have Natasha this time.

"Take this guy down with prejudice," Fury dictated his final order. "He's responsible for hurting a lot of people. I know you two will handle this with the upmost professionalism."

Clint's eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if he was the only one that heard the slightly knowing edge to Fury's tone or the odd wording or the fact that he was staring directly at Clint and then Natasha as he said it.

"Happy hunting," the Director finished, striding out of the room with a flurry of black leather.

* * *

Natasha looked up from where she was packing her bag when a knock came at her door. She carefully folded the shirt in her hands into the bag and moved to the door, pulling it open. She instinctively smiled when she saw Clint leaning against her door with his weapons bag in one hand, his pack slung over one shoulder, and his quiver and bow in his other hand.

"Almost ready?" he asked, stepping into the room when she moved aside. She closed the door behind him and headed back to her bag.

"Almost," she assured. She neatly folded a few more items of clothing into the bag. "He knows."

"Sure seems like it," Clint agreed. He dropped his bag, bow, and quiver on the bed and glanced into her bag. "You actually fold things…interesting."

"He doesn't approve." Natasha refused to be distracted.

"Who cares," Clint shrugged. "There was no official rule against it even before he split us up."

"There were protocols though," she pointed out. "We were supposed to get official approval, there was paperwork, and technically we  _aren't_  supposed to be partnered because of the loss of objectivity," she finished in a rush.

"Tasha, slow down," Clint put a hand on each of shoulders. "First of all, it's nobody else's business so they can shove the paperwork and official approval up their collective asses. Second of all," he smiled slightly, "if Fury knows, and I really think he does because the man knows  _everything_ , and he actually wanted to put a stop to it, don't you think he would have done something by now? Do you think he'd actually partner us for an assignment if he thought we couldn't keep our focus?"

"No," she sighed.

"Fury might not be thrilled, but he's not actively  _not_  approving either."

"Neither is Coulson," she added.

Clint withdrew his hands and picked up his gear.

"Phil is coming around," he assured. "I already did a walk around of the jet and now I have to go get cleared by medical, but I'll meet you at the hangar."

She nodded and zipped her bag closed. She raised her head to accept the quick kiss he granted her and then watched him walk out of the room. After getting shot, agents had to get cleared before every mission for six months after returning to active duty. It was one of Clint's greatest annoyances.

She and Coulson had both told him numerous times that if he would stop getting shot, he wouldn't have to keep getting cleared. He tended to give them his most withering glare when they gave him that advice.

* * *

She walked up the ramp to their assigned jet to see Coulson sitting in the pilot's seat entering their flight information into the system. He glanced back at her as she came on board offering her a smile of greeting.

"All set?" he asked, turning back to the control panel.

"Hope so," she smiled slightly as she stowed her gear and slid into the co-pilot's chair.

"Clint at medical?"

She nodded and adjusted her seat to fit her more comfortably.

"Romanoff," Phil started only to trail off.

She glanced at him curiously.

He started again.

"I know I haven't seemed supportive of you two," he stated bluntly. "I'm sorry for that. But I just want you to know that I trust you."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. If he meant what she thought he meant, it might have been the kindest thing he'd ever said to her. His next words confirmed it.

"I trust you with  _him_."

She felt a sudden swell of emotion that was unfamiliar. She allowed herself emotion with Clint, but never anyone else. Coulson had drawn it out with just a few words. She knew how deep the brotherhood between Clint and their handler ran. She knew how deeply protective Coulson was of his charge and how deeply Clint valued Coulson's place in his life. For Coulson to say he trusted her with Clint meant more than any other compliment ever could.

"I won't hurt him. I could never," she promised quietly. Because it was Coulson, and she knew what Coulson cared about most was protecting Clint.

"I know," Phil smiled slightly, almost warmly.

"You didn't always," she pointed out. "You told Clint it was a bad idea."

"I was wrong," Phil admitted readily. "When he told me, my first thought was of your reputation when it should have been of what I knew from personal experience. I made a quick judgment and believe me, Clint set me straight. I started observing you two after that and my whole opinion changed. You bring out the best parts of him, Romanoff. And I can see he brings out the best parts of you."

"He does," Natasha confirmed softly. "He makes me want to be a better person," she added.

"He has that way about him," Phil smiled affectionately.

"I  _need_  him. I can't imagine my life without him now."

"And as the person that knows him better than anyone, I can tell you that he needs you too. I can see it in his eyes. The most important thing to me is that he's happy and that he doesn't get hurt and I know, now, that you'll make sure that never happens."

"How did you get so protective of him?" she wondered. "The relationship you two have is like nothing I've ever seen. You're closer than family to him."

"When I met Clint, he was broken," Phil explained. "He'd been betrayed in the worst way years earlier and still hadn't recovered."

"Barney," she nodded knowingly.

Phil nodded in return.

"On top of that, he was drowning under the guilt of what he'd done as a contract assassin. It took a lot of time and patience, but together we managed to pull the pieces of his life back together. And I guess I've just been extremely wary of anything that could break him again."

Natasha nodded in understanding. She understood that protectiveness, she felt it herself anytime Clint spoke of his brother with pain in his eyes or of his contract days with guilt weighing his shoulders. She wondered what Clint had been like when Coulson found him. She couldn't imagine Clint as anything but the strong, brave man he was now. Somehow, Coulson, when Clint was at his worst, had managed to pull the archer back together. Not unlike what Clint had done for her. She felt like she'd gained a new perspective and insight into Clint and Coulson's relationship.

"Anyway," Coulson went on, "what I really want you to know, Romanoff, is that you make him happy in a way he's never been before. I'm  _glad_  you two have gotten to where you are."

Natasha couldn't help but smile.

"Thank you," she offered sincerely.

He nodded and stood, he turned to see Clint pushing through the entrance door to the hangar.

"Coulson," Natasha stopped him from moving out of the jet. "I think it's about time you called me Natasha."

Phil smiled, knowing the significance of that offer.

"Have a safe trip, Natasha."

She nodded with a slight grin and watched him exit the jet, meeting Clint halfway to the door. It felt like a weight was off her shoulders. With Phil in their corner, she no longer felt like Clint was being forced to choose between them. It had never come to something like that, but Natasha had felt the slight division ever since Vietnam. Now that division was gone.

With a satisfied gleam in her eye, she started doing their pre-flight checks.

* * *

"All clear?" Phil asked as he and Clint met halfway between the door and the jet.

"Yup, gonna miss having you out there."

"I'll miss being out there. But you two will handle yourselves just fine."

Clint quirked his lips into a sideways grin and glanced to the jet.

"I'll make contact when we get to the safe house," he promised.

"Good, and before I forget," Phil pulled a black credit card out of his pocket. "You can't go to a high class fundraiser in cargo pants and a t-shirt."

"The company card, very nice," Clint smirked.

"Nothing not mission relevant."

"Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"I feel like the meaning still stands."

Phil inclined his head in acceptance and handed over the card.

"Have a safe flight."

"Will do, Overwatch," Clint assured.

Phil squeezed his shoulder in farewell and Clint clapped him on the arm before continuing to the jet.

The handler stood in the hangar and watched Clint trot up the ramp and into the jet. A few moments later the bay door at the back started closing and the jet powered to life. Not long after that it taxied out of the hangar and then it was rising into the sky and out of sight.

* * *

"Auto-pilot engaged," Clint sighed, sitting back in his pilot's chair. He'd take back over when they got into Hungarian airspace a little less than nine hours from now.

Natasha sat back as well and slipped off her headset.

"So Coulson talked to me while you were in medical," she stated bluntly.

"Oh yeah?" Clint turned to look at her. "Anything interesting?"

"He told me he trusts me."

She watched him absorb that and saw the moment its true meaning dawned on him. She'd known she wouldn't have to explain further. Clint knew Coulson better than anyone.

"He said that, huh?" Clint smiled. He knew from experience how protective Phil was. He knew how much that one statement meant.

"Yes, he even went so far as to say he was glad we've gotten to this point."

"Really?" Clint's smile widened.

"You don't look surprised," Natasha noticed with a slight grin.

"I knew he'd eventually see you like I do." Clint's eyebrow quirked. "Well not  _exactly_  like I do."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

* * *

"Lima," Clint stated decisively.

"Peru? Really?" Natasha tilted her head thoughtfully against her headrest. They were both lounged comfortably in their pilot and co-pilot chairs, Clint with his feet propped on the console and Natasha with her feet propped on Clint's lap. He was munching on what she thought was an unreasonably large bag of M&Ms and a occasionally drinking from bottle of Gatorade he kept propped against her ankles.

"Yep," Clint flipped a blue M&M into the air and caught it effortlessly in his mouth. "Favorite weapon acquirement."

Natasha narrowed her eyes thoughtfully tossing some snack mix into her mouth. It was specially made for her by Clint. Just the right mix of her favorite crunchy, sweet, and salty snacks from around the world. He called it the 'Tasha Mix' as opposed to Trail Mix.

"Morocco," she finally decided a smirk lighting her features. "That switch blade I can hide no matter  _what_  I'm wearing."

Clint's eyes brightened and his mouth quirked into a smirk that she could only describe as shameless.

"Favorite cover," she stated before he could make a comment that was sure to make her want to kick him.

He eyed her with that smirk for a few more moments before growing reflective.

"Paris," he stated with quiet certainty.

Her eyes softened.

"I got to play bodyguard and protect for once instead of kill," he went on.

"You protected more on that mission than just that man," she pointed out with a warm smile.

He smiled the smile that was meant only for her.

"Favorite training exercise."

Natasha rested her head back and thought for a moment with her eyes on the roof of the jet.

"Sparring," she decided with a wistful smile. She lowered her eyes and directed the smile at him. "With my partner because he knows what I'm going to do before I do and that forces me to be a better fighter."

They shared another smile. He loved sparring with her as much as she did. They challenged each other and forced each other to improve. Natasha hid a sudden yawn behind her hand.

"Why don't you get some sleep? You can switch with me later."

"Wake me in two hours," she instructed as she stood without complaint and moved to the back of the jet to stretch out on the floor, her head pillowed on her bag.

"Will do," Clint promised tossing some more M&Ms into his mouth and slipping his ear buds out of his pocket and into his ears. He cranked up his favorite classic rock playlist and watched the sky roll by through the front window.

* * *

Natasha looked up from her book when she saw Clint shift out of the corner of her eye. He was stretched out on the jet floor much as she had been, back flat against the metal flooring and head pillowed on his pack.

She watched him closely for several moments, waiting to see if he'd move again.

He did.

A sudden jerk of his head to the left. His neck relaxed and his head lolled back just as quickly. She pulled her feet down from where they were propped in his chair and sat up a little straighter. His hands flexed as if grasping for something, his bow no doubt. His head jerked again and he mumbled something in what sounded like Afrikaans or Dutch, but it wasn't clear enough for her be sure. But given what had happened a few months ago, she'd go with Afrikaans. She slowly stood, set her book down, and moved carefully towards him.

She stopped four feet away and crouched. She'd learned the hard way not to wake him from a nightmare with a touch. It wasn't really safe to wake Clint at all with a touch, but when trapped in a nightmare it took him an extra beat to determine dream from reality and that beat could mean her life or death. Instead, she called his name.

"Clint," she called firmly, hoping to jar him from sleep. Before Vietnam, it had been the way she'd seen Coulson wake him from a nightmare. She'd adopted it after getting sliced with his knife the first time she tried to wake him.

His head twitched as if he heard her but he didn't wake. It rarely worked the first time with Coulson either.

"Clint!" she snapped a little more forcefully.

He jackknifed abruptly and had his side arm pulled and aimed at her forehead before she could blink.

She stared down the barrel of the gun directly into his eyes and waited.

It only took a moment for the haze of the dream to clear then he blinked and he was lowering the gun.

"Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly.

"Which one was it?" she asked. She'd been growing increasingly familiar with the different categories of dreams he had. There were three that she'd determined. Before his contract days, his contract days, and SHIELD. She didn't know which was worse. When he dreamed of being stabbed by his brother or when he relived his days as a hit man. The guilt he still felt for what he'd done as a contract assassin was so heavy and painful for him, but she wasn't sure if it compared to the raw pain and devastation she saw in his eyes when he dreamed of Barney. He still talked about his contract days with Coulson when he dreamed about them and she was grateful for Phil's healing and comforting affect on her hawk. When he dreamed of Barney, though rare, he was unapproachable by both her and Phil. He would withdraw into himself for just a little while, deal with his pain in his own internal way, and then pretend it never happened.

She suspected he'd been dreaming about a SHIELD mission given he'd been mumbling in the language of his most recent disaster. He confirmed her suspicions a moment later.

"Fourie," he sighed, reholstering his weapon and scrubbing a hand down his face.

"You okay?" she asked carefully.

"Yeah," he sighed again, more deeply this time, and she arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "Okay enough," he amended.

She nodded and stood when he did. They both looked over her shoulder when the consol beeped and an automated voice informed them they were nearing Hungarian airspace. They moved together back to their respective seats and Clint took control of the plane once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 2
> 
> And so they arrive in Budapest...*cue ominous music*...We get to see Clint deal with one of Nat's dreams next chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> "Okay, I'm coming out," Natasha announced. The curtain that hid the dressing room from view snapped to the side and she stepped out.
> 
> Clint had always thought the term jaw-dropping was just that, a term. He'd never believed it was something that could actually be inspired by a visual stimulus. But now he knew he'd been dead wrong, because his jaw went slack, dropping open as he stared at her.
> 
> Beautiful was the only word that he could form in his suddenly frozen thoughts.


	3. I'll Be By Your Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

_Obstacles don't have to stop you. If you run into a wall, don't turn around and give up. Figure out how to climb it, go through it, or work around it._

**_Michael Jordan_ **

* * *

"Home sweet home," Clint announced as he held the door to their safe house open for Natasha and allowed her to precede him in. She moved into the small apartment, taking in the two cots in the corner, the small open kitchen and small doorway with a bathroom beyond it. She walked the four steps to one of the cots, dropped her go-bag onto it and carried her weapons bag to the kitchen table.

Clint was already dialing their satellite phone even as he tossed his go-bag towards the second cot and set his weapons bag on the floor next to the table. He switched the phone to speaker and set it on the table. They listened to it ring twice before the call was answered.

" _Coulson."_

"SHIELD couldn't spring for something bigger?" Clint led off with a smile. He tossed a wink at Natasha who rolled her eyes with a smile of her own.

" _I'm so sorry we couldn't accommodate your extravagant tastes."_

"Just make a note for next time."

He smirked, swearing he could hear Coulson's eye roll.

_"The event is the tomorrow night. Natasha, you'll go in as a guest. I trust you can find a way to make that happen."_

"Not a problem," she nodded confidently.

" _Clint, you'll sneak in through the venting system, there's access on the rooftop."_

"Awesome. Not only do I have to wear a tux, but I have to wear a tux while crawling around in air ducts."

" _When Natasha makes her move, you'll need to be able to blend into the party so you can back her up,"_ Phil explained patiently. He continued before Clint could respond.  _"Now Natasha, your first priority is getting an ID on this guy. Work the room, try to get eyes on him and relay the description to Clint."_

"Got it," she assured.

"How the hell do we not have a picture of this guy? We're the leading covert agency in the world and we don't even have a basic description. How is that even possible?" Clint complained.

" _He's gone to great lengths to keep his identity under wraps. It's not easy, especially with SHIELD hunting you, but it can be done. Moreno was smart from the moment he started his organization."_

"Not smart enough to stay off SHIELD's shit list," Clint countered.

" _Few ever are,"_  Coulson responded.  _"You two get some rest, get out and scout the house, learn the city, and go get your clothes for the party. As usual, stay under the radar and practice your covers."_

"You got it," Clint nodded.

"We'll check in when we get back to the safe house tonight," Natasha added as she dug their fake IDs out of her bag. She looked at the two fake passports and handed one to Clint.

" _Talk to you both then."_

Clint turned off the phone and turned her passport in her hand so he could read it.

"Weapons, food, or shopping first,  _Isabelle_   _Dubois_? So you're going French, I take it."

Natasha laughed when his stomach rumbled a moment later.

"Food," she decided. "Let me guess, you know this great little place," she looked at his passport, " _Remy Dubois._ "

They both arched an eyebrow and looked down at their passports, then again at each other's.

"You'd have thought Phil would mention they made us related."

Natasha shrugged.

"How do you want to play it?" she asked, pushing her passport into her purse and moving over to her bag. She pulled out a pair of light blue jeans and a dark green v-neck sweater. She stripped out of her black form fitting leather jacket and started to change.

"Married on vacation?" he offered, taking the few steps to get to his own cot.

He pulled open his own bag and extracted a pair of blue jeans, a blue sweater that she thought brought out the blue in his eyes and a white t-shirt. He tossed his layered leather jacket and zip up grey hoodie onto his cot and pulled off the grey long sleeved shirt he'd been wearing.

"Sounds good," she agreed taking a moment to appreciate the view under the guise of adjusting the placement of her green sweater. He glanced at her over his bare shoulder and winked, just to let her know he  _knew_  she was watching him, and then pulled on his undershirt. The blue sweater quickly followed and then he was toeing off his boots and stripping out of his black cargos. Natasha arched an appreciative eyebrow as he pulled the blue jeans up and they hugged him in all the right places. He turned and sat on his cot to pull his black boots back on.

Natasha, already fully dressed but for her jacket and scarf, watched him.

"If you're done undressing me with your eyes," Clint smirked as he stood and shrugged into his layered jackets, "we've got food to get to."

Natasha rolled her eyes, pulled on her own jacket and zipped it partway closed. Clint pulled her scarf out of her bag and looped it around her neck, pulling her closer.

"Now who's undressing who with their eyes?" Natasha teased as he gave her an appreciative once over.

"How about we leave my eyes out of it and I just undress you?"

She allowed him to pull her in for a deep, lingering kiss.

"We've got work to do," she murmured when he pulled back.

"Work is overrated," he muttered, but allowed her to step back and tie off her scarf, pulling her long curly red hair out to flow around her shoulders.

"You know a place to get good breakfast?" she asked as she pulled on a pair of leather gloves and watched him do the same.

"Of course I do. You're gonna love it," Clint promised as he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door.

* * *

"This is delicious," Natasha stated around a mouth full off  _kifli_ , also known as a strudel.

"I told you this place was the best in the area," Clint smiled, taking a bit of his own pastry. He glanced around out of habit. It was early not even six in the morning local time and the small café only had one other patron. He glanced at their young waitress when she moved over to their table.

"Kávét?"  _(Coffee?)_ she asked in a soft, melodic voice.

"Igen,"  _(Yes)_  he responded, raising a questioning eyebrow at Natasha.

"Nem, köszönöm,"  _(No, thank you)_  she shook her head.

The girl took Clint's empty coffee cup and disappeared towards the kitchen. She returned seconds later with a full cup of steaming liquid. She set it before Clint with a smile.

"Köszi."  _(Thanks)_  he offered before proceeding to scoop an unreasonable amount of sugar into his mug. Natasha watched him stir in the sweet addition with a small, affectionate smile. Her hawk and his sugar addiction.

"So I doubt anything will be open for us to do any shopping for the party yet, but we can move around the city, learn the area around the house and do some surveillance," he suggested, seemingly oblivious to her observation. She knew for a fact that he was never oblivious to anything.

"Sounds like a plan. Then you can take me to lunch and then take me shopping."

"You make it sound like I'm a man servant," he scowled playfully. His eyes narrowed at the sudden lustfully playful look in her eyes. "Dirty, dirty girl," he scolded. "Mind out of the gutter."

"You object?" she laughed lightly.

"I object to being objectified by your eyes.  _There,_ " he pointed at her, "you're doing it again. Stop picturing me naked."

Natasha smirked and arched an intrigued eyebrow.

"Okay fine," Clint sighed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, "you obviously can't help yourself. Objectify me all you want, I'm yours to do with as you wish."

"Is that a promise?" she asked with a lustful purr and a gleam to her eyes that had him swallowing thickly.

"Damn you're good," he rumbled back. It never ceased to fascinate him how she could turn on the charm so effectively. There was something different in her expression now than when she worked a mark though. Her smirk was seductive, but her eyes were playful and honest. She was always careful not to look at him like she looked at a mark. With him, unlike with her marks, her intentions were always pure.

Well, not exactly  _pure_.

He cleared his throat and reached for his coffee. She sat back with a satisfied smirk.

"That's not fair, you know, you're not supposed to use your powers for evil."

"You say that like you don't do the same thing," she challenged with a scoff.

"You saying I have power over you, Natasha?" he spoke her name in the exact tone he knew melted her and she got lost in his blue grey eyes for a split second before she cleared her throat. She leaned forward, two could play this game.

"You saying  _I_  have power over  _you_ , мой сокол?" she replied in a purr.  _(my hawk)_

"You know that you do," he responded, catching her off guard with his admittance. She embraced the warmth it brought to her.

"Not fair," she purred back with a half hearted glare.

"Who said we were playing fair."

They stared at each other for a long moment before they both sat back with a smile. It was nice, just being Clint and Natasha, no one watching, no one judging, no covers, no danger. It didn't happen often out of the privacy of one of their bedrooms.

"Shall we?" he asked, tossing more than enough money to cover their bill on the table and standing. He offered her his hand and she took it.

"Köszönöm,"  _(Thank you)_ their waitress called to them from the kitchen door, noticing they were leaving.

Clint smiled and downed the rest of his coffee.

"Nagyon finom volt,"  _(It was delicious)_  he replied, leading Natasha to the door.

"So, Isabelle, where to first?" Clint asked, his voice taking on a flawless French accent.

"Let's see the sights, that's what married couples do, right?" Natasha responded with an equally perfect accent.

"I guess so," Clint shrugged, pulling on his gloves and offering her his hand. Once her gloves were in place, she took it and they started walking.

"How many times have you been here?" Natasha asked as they strolled hand in hand down the street.

"Hungary or Budapest?"

"Budapest."

"Twice. Both with SHIELD. You?"

"Three times," she replied. "You've only been here twice and you speak the language fluently?"

"I've got an ear for languages." He shrugged. "You've only been here three times and you're just as fluent."

"I was taught several languages in my training. Hungarian was one of them," she explained easily. "Did SHIELD teach you the language?"

"The best they could. I got a basic rundown, but I learn better when I'm surrounded by it. So I didn't really get fluent until I was here."

Natasha nodded in understanding. They chatted back and forth as they walked, switching to French as they came upon a more populated area. They did their best to blend in. Clint was a natural at it. He excelled at being forgotten the moment he left your sight. For Natasha it was a little more difficult, but she took her cue from Clint and together they played the part of a happily married French couple on vacation. Natasha made sure to keep her stature and expression as innocent and naive as she could, clinging to Clint as any woman madly in love would. It was easier than she expected to play that part.

Eventually they made their way out toward the outskirts of the city and to the street the event would be on. The fundraiser was taking place in a large mansion at the edge of the city. They walked past it casually, barely sparing it more than an awed glance. No more than any passing person would have. But one glance was all either of them needed.

In one glance, Natasha counted every window visible from the front of the house, noted their locations, their height from the ground, and if they had any exterior fixtures nearby that could be used for climbing. She saw the entrance, a path leading down the side of the house to what looked like a fenced off garden area, and the iron gate that separated the front walkway from the street.

In one glance, Clint saw six different ways he could get to the flat rooftop without being seen. He saw the set up for summer entertaining on that rooftop and assumed there was a door leading directly inside. He saw the same path Natasha did and noted nine places he could hide around the perimeter of the house where he wouldn't be noticed.

To anybody watching, they didn't even pause their flawless French conversation and continued on their way without a backwards glance. They were unremarkable and forgettable. Just like the needed to be.

* * *

"How's it going back there, Isabelle?" Clint asked from where he sat in a fancy, overly stuffed chair flipping through a magazine.

"Almost ready," Natasha replied. The store attendant approached with a smile.

"How is she doing?" she asked in heavily accented English.

Clint and Natasha had come into the store speaking French and the clerk had immediately addressed them in English, obviously hoping they had the language in common. Clint had figured it was more unimpressive to know English than to know Hungarian, so he responded that they  _did_  speak English and that is was a relief that she did as well.

Natasha had explained that she was looking for a formal dress because her wonderful husband was taking her out to an expensive dinner. The woman had taken one look at Clint, who smiled charmingly, and immediately started gushing to Natasha about what a handsome man she'd married. She'd pulled her off towards one of the racks and left Clint standing by the door alone.

He'd rocked awkwardly back on his heels and glanced around. There had been another man standing uncomfortably near the front window. Clint had granted him a nod of greeting and shared experience and then he'd moved after Natasha.

Now, six dresses later, his fellow male had left, trotting off after his significant other and abandoning Clint to the world of women's fashion. He smiled up at the shop attendant.

"I think we're getting close."

"Okay, I'm coming out," Natasha announced. The curtain that hid the dressing room from view snapped to the side and she stepped out. The attendant that had been helping her slid out as well.

Clint had always thought the term jaw-dropping was just that, a term. He'd never believed it was something that could actually be inspired by a visual stimulus. But now he knew he'd been dead wrong, because his jaw went slack, dropping open as he stared at her.

Beautiful was the only word that he could form in his suddenly frozen thoughts.

The dress was long, flowing down to the ground and covering her currently bare feet. It was white, but not a blank white. The silky fabric shimmered in the light, giving her an unearthly glow as she moved. It had one shoulder, and crossed the front of her chest, showing just enough to make him want to see more. The other side of the dress was held up by a thin shimmering cord that disappeared over her other shoulder. Her fiery red hair was hanging down to the middle of her biceps, in his opinion only adding to the effect of the dress.

"Turn around, dear, and let him see the back," the attendant instructed, waving her hand in a circular fashion.

Natasha, smirking at Clint's dumfounded expression, turned.

The cord from the front crossed her back, weaving in with other corseted cords designed to keep the deeply scooping back from revealing too much. All Clint cared about was that her entire back was open to his view. The back of the dress stopped just below her lower back, making his mind race to all sorts of places.

She turned back around.

"Remy? What do you think?" Natasha asked.

Clint blinked and snapped his mouth shut.

"We'll take it."

Natasha smiled. He couldn't have given his approval more clearly than that.

* * *

"I showed you mine, it's only fair," Natasha coaxed as she adjusted one of the suits on the rack outside the dressing room.

"But you wear that kind of crap all the time. I haven't worn a tux since…I don't know…Paris, when we met."

"And you pulled it off then, now won't be any different."

"I'm not worried about being able to pull it off," Clint groused as he snapped his curtain aside and stepped out. "It restricts the range of motion on my shoulders."

Natasha had already stopped listening. With the company card, they'd been able to get him a suit tailored. They'd gotten him measured, gone to lunch on SHIELD's dime, spied on the house from a roof top two blocks away, and then returned to pick it up. When you said money was no object and meant it, people tended to give you want you wanted when you wanted it.

For hardly ever wearing anything but cargo pants, t-shirts, and the occasional athletic shorts, Clint wore tuxes extremely well.

The jacket accented his lean waist and muscled shoulders and frankly made her mouth go dry as she looked at him. He was fussing with a black bow tie and finally gave up on it with a huff.

Natasha stepped up and took the tie into her hands, skillfully tying it to perfection. She smoothed it gently and smiled warmly at him. For as comfortable as he was forcing himself to look, she could see insecurity hiding in his eyes. That insecurity faded in the face of her smile, though. She straightened the tie one last time and stepped back.

"Phil taught me to tie the normal ones, but not one of these damn things," Clint muttered as he turned to regard himself in the mirror.

Natasha didn't reply to that. There was nothing she could say, really. The man that should have taught him, his father, had been stolen from him at a young and tender age. From there he'd never had anyone care enough or have cause enough to teach him, until Coulson.

"What do you think? Fit for a who's who of the rich and murderous?"

Natasha smiled at him in the reflection of the mirror before turning to catch the eye of the attendant across the store.

"We'll take it."

* * *

"I feel like a freaking stiff in the damn thing," Clint complained as he held the satellite phone to his ear with one hand and cleared their dinner dishes with the other. He heard the shower turn on and moved over to his cot, dropping down on to it to wait for Natasha to return.

" _It's a formal event, Clint. You don't really have a choice."_

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Clint sighed and rested the phone between his shoulder and his cheek to scratch at the fading scars on his left hand. If he never had to pull his hand out of a metal cuff, he'd be a happy man.

" _You'll do fine, just remember, we don't know who Fourie has told about you, so until Natasha makes her move stick to the vents. When the time comes, keep it low profile."_

"I will," he promised.

Both agent and handler were silent for a moment.

" _I'm happy for you, Clint."_

The archer smiled warmly. As usual, having no trouble tracking his handler's train of thought.

"Yeah, she told me you'd talked to her. It means a lot, Phil. I'm serious about that."

" _I know she makes you happy and that she wouldn't hurt you. That's all that matters to me. It's all that's ever mattered."_

"You're a big softie, Phil."

" _Keep that to yourself, Barton."_

"I'll take it to my grave."

" _You two get some rest and check in before you head out tomorrow."_

"Will do, Overwatch."

" _Be careful."_

"Always."

He hung up as Natasha came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her body and her hair hanging in wet waves. He met her eyes with a questioning arch to his eyebrow. He remembered her bringing clothes into the bathroom.

She smirked seductively and dropped the towel.

She didn't even get out her fake "oops" before he was on his feet and pressing his mouth to hers.

* * *

Clint woke when her elbow hit his stomach. He flinched awake, looking around in confusion. They were sleeping on a pallet of blankets on the floor. He'd been sleeping on his side, right arm thrown over her as she slept snuggled into his chest.

He pushed himself up onto his elbow, watching her closely. She was wearing one of his old training t-shirts, his last name emblazoned across the shoulders and a pair of his boxers. At some point she seemed to have pushed down the blankets they'd had over them.

He was just beginning to think he'd imagined the elbow to the gut when she flinched again. Her whole body jerking and then relaxing. He turned his attention to her face, watching her eyes move beneath her eyelids.

 _Nightmare_.

He slowly and carefully sat up, careful not to jostle her.

"Natasha," he called gently, watching her tense at the sound of her name. "Tasha, wake up," he calmly ordered.

She didn't stir, almost seemed to be frozen.

"Natasha…" He ducked the swinging fist only barely.

He reached out, intending to calm her with a touch, it usually worked these days, but she flinched away violently and scurried a few feet away. Her eyes were wide and terrified and her breathing was rapid and shallow.

"Natasha," he called again, more firmly. She blinked, and some of the terror faded replaced by recognition.

"Clint?" she breathed in a tense and hesitant tone that crushed him just a little.

"It's me," he promised. "I'm right here, you're safe."

She stared at him for an extra moment before nodding jerkily and relaxing her posture.

"The Red Room?" he deduced seriously.

She nodded again.

"You're not there anymore." Her eyes shifted away. "Look at me." They snapped back. "You're not there. They don't control you.  _You're_  in control."

She kept her eyes locked on his for a heavy moment before her breathing started to calm and she shifted towards him, allowing him to wrap her in a secure hug.

"Say it," he instructed quietly.

"I'm not there. They don't control me.  _I_  control me," she murmured against his bare chest, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "They can't hurt me anymore," she added softly.

Clint's arms tightened around her. She didn't dream of the Red Room often. She usually dreamed of missions gone wrong or hits she felt guilty for. She dreamed of the Red Room with about the frequency he dreamed of Barney. It was rare, but when it happened it was  _bad_. He reverted when he dreamed of Barney, withdrew into himself and battled out the demons in his own mind.

She panicked. It was the  _only_  time he'd ever seen her panic. He'd learned the two other times it had happened since Vietnam that his voice helped, something about the cadence and the way he said her name soothed her. He'd also learned that she needed to be reminded that she wasn't there anymore. They didn't control her. They couldn't hurt her. He would remind her and then make her assert it herself. Only then would she start to calm.

"I don't want to go back to sleep," she announced suddenly, pulling back from his embrace and looking up at him.

"Okay," he allowed easily. "We'll stay awake."

He pulled her down to lay with him again and held her securely against his side with one arm. She breathed deeply, reveling in the feeling of warmth and safety he brought to her with just that small action.

"I've been thinking," she started quietly, "that with all the traveling we do for missions, all the cities we go into, and all the times we run the risk of being made, we should have a backup plan."

"What kind of backup plan?" he asked curiously.

"Secure safe houses that no one else knows about," she clarified confidently. "Just in case something goes wrong and we need a safe place to go."

He nodded. It was a good idea.

"Fair enough, but safe houses cost money and I haven't been able to bring myself to touch that account in years."

"We don't need to use your account," she pointed out. "You think I didn't make my own money before you came along? I'm the Black Widow. When I took a contract, I was  _very_  well compensated because of my reputation alone."

"You saying you've got millions you haven't told me about?"

"I'm telling you now," she shrugged.

Clint inclined his head in acknowledgment. That was true.

"Okay," he agreed, "we'll start setting up our own safe houses."

"Just as a precautionary back up plan."

"It's a great idea," he assured. "Where do you want to start?"

"We can start here, in Budapest."

Clint smiled.

"Budapest it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 3
> 
> Tomorrow is the mission! This is the last of the fluffiness so prepare yourselves :)
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> Far above her, on the roof of the very house she was about to enter, Clint couldn't help but whistle softly in appreciation. Nobody carried herself like Natasha Romanoff. She could have been wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and she'd still have drawn every eye in the area.
> 
> And she wasn't wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.


	4. You Know I Won't Give In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Thanks to writtergirl15 who acted as my French translator for this chapter :)

_All the world is full of suffering. It is also full of overcoming._

**_Helen Keller_ **

* * *

"Comm. check, Hawk. I've got a possible mark in my sights," Natasha murmured as her cab pulled up to the curb in front of the house.

" _I've got you 5x5, Widow,"_ Clint's voice came through the comm. device implanted in her molar.

Clint had flat out refused to have the same device put in his tooth. She knew about his experience in the Andes and couldn't fault him for his aversion to the molar devices. Given the choice, he'd pick an independent device every time. She wished she had that luxury. But when you were wearing a slinky, silky white dress a tiny black device in your ear stood out, no matter how small it was.

" _Let me guess, Mr. Tall and Dark who looks so lonely checking his phone by the gate."_

Natasha smirked.

"You almost sound jealous," she teased quietly as she waited for her door to be opened. She felt her hawk's eyes on her from a perch somewhere high above as soon as she set her first stiletto on the ground. She gracefully accepted the hand offered to her by the man who had opened her door and rose out of the seat with her chin high and a sultry smirk playing at her lips.

Far above her, on the roof of the very house she was about to enter, Clint couldn't help but whistle softly in appreciation. Nobody carried herself like Natasha Romanoff. She could have been wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and she'd still have drawn every eye in the area.

And she wasn't wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

Her silky white dress shimmered around her legs as she stepped away from the curb and adjusted the plush fur coat she was wearing. He watched her cast a glance around, settling her gaze on her target. He knew she'd be giving the helpless man that seductive little smile of hers, the one she never used on him. She'd made it a point after Vietnam to never direct a fake expression at him. Never to use the little smiles or looks she used on targets. Instead, he'd noticed, she made an effort to make the seductive smiles she tossed at him real and genuine, displaying the same want and need for him that he knew his own expression often showed.

He didn't know why she went to that effort and he wasn't sure if he'd ever ask. It was enough to know she was so purposefully making the distinction between him and every other man. He was different to her, and that's all that mattered to him.

He watched the scene unfold below with a small smile.

His spider was a master of her craft.

All it took was one look, one little smile, and her mark was moving towards her. He'd never, in all the time he'd known her, seen Natasha have to seek out a male target. They always came to her. He skulked backwards towards his entry point, knowing that she was as good as in the house now.

* * *

" _The_ _hors d'oeuvres_ _are excellent,"_ Natasha informed him over the comm, her French accent, as he expected, flawless.

Clint paused in his shimmy through the air duct and scowled.

"Really? Was that necessary?"

He could picture her sly smirk and slight unconcerned shrug.

" _Just thought you'd be interested, what with your love of local cuisine."_

"You know what I get to eat tonight? A snack pack of MRE bread and jerky…and you get food that's probably more expensive than my bike."

" _You're sure complaining a lot tonight. Getting tired of your vents, Hawk?"_

"For one, these vents are barely big enough for me to move in. And two, everybody's getting to see you in that dress except for me."

Her lack of response told him she was smiling.

"Where's your date? Ditch him already?"

" _He suddenly wasn't feeling very well."_

"Jesus, what'd you slip the poor guy."

" _A laxative."_

Clint shook his head with a slight laugh.

" _I'm going to start making the rounds and try to get an ID on our target."_

"I'll be here," Clint shifted further in the vent and scowled at the metal pressing into his shoulders from both sides. He'd gotten spoiled by SHIELD's large venting system. "Slowly developing claustrophobia," he added with a grumble.

* * *

Natasha smiled slightly, hearing the complaint in his tone. She moved over to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine all while scanning the room with her skillful green eyes.

"Your wine, madam," the bartender placed it lightly in front of her.

"Merci,"  _(Thank you)_ she all but purred.

She offered a sultry smile to a tall lean man who looked to be in his forties, standing at the end of the bar. She took a sip of her wine as he moved towards her. He leaned against the bar next to her, smiling charmingly.

"You are too beautiful to be here alone,  _signora_ ,"  _(madam)_ he murmured in a thick Italian accent.

" _Wow,"_  Clint scoffed,  _"what a line."_

Natasha's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She smiled at the man in front of her and made a show at glancing up and away, as if embarrassed by his attention. She saw the vent high over her left shoulder. Clint was watching, probably reading this poor man's lips because he couldn't  _not_  spy on people.

"And yet here I am,  _monsieur_ ,"  _(sir)_  Natasha replied silkily, ignoring Clint's commentary.

"French?" the man questioned in surprise.

" _He's like a detective."_

"Oui."  _(Yes)_

"I have visited the lovely city of Paris many times in my travels from my home in  _Roma_."

" _I'm sure he has."_

Natasha had grown accustomed to keeping her cover with Clint chattering in her ear, so ignoring him had become second nature. So she smiled, despite that she could  _feel_  him rolling his eyes, and exchanged shallow small talk about Paris with the man, who she had already determined was not her target.

"I have heard there are important people in attendance tonight," Natasha commented as she sipped her wine. She resisted the urge to break her new companion's fingers when he ran them lightly down her bare bicep. She'd never particularly enjoyed it when men touched her, but ever since Vietnam it had become revolting to her. She didn't want anyone but Clint touching her.

"I've already found the most important," her friend smiled.

" _Jesus, how are you not putting this guy out of his misery."_

"You are too kind,  _monsieur_."

"Perhaps I can show you another kindness," the Italian murmured, touching the top of her hand to his lips.

" _Seriously?"_

Natasha smiled, but her eyes were tracking a man as he moved through the room with a young woman hanging on his arm.

"Madám Moreno," the man called out in greeting.

"Perhaps another time," Natasha ran the back of her finger down the Italian's cheek and then moved away, farther down the bar, keeping one eye on the man that had called out for what sounded like their target's wife.

She watched him approach a couple from behind, a slender woman with long flowing black hair and a man with graying brown hair. The couple turned, smiling in greeting.

"Filip!" the woman greeted warmly in a rich Spanish accent. Her dark eyes moved to the girl on Filip's arm. "And who is this?"

"Ah, my manners, Annabella, meet my close friend, Alexandra Moreno and her husband Eduardo."

"Call me Alex."

Natasha was suddenly immeasurably grateful for all of her training because her expression didn't slip. She kept moving along the bar, keeping one eye on the target and one eye on the rest of the room.

"We've got a problem," she stated under her breath.

" _What's up?"_  Clint replied his tone suddenly serious.

"Alex Moreno is  _Alexandra_  Moreno."

" _It's a chick?"_

"It would seem." Natasha moved skillfully around the room, making sure to keep Alex Moreno in her sights. "And she's married. You need to get down here. Our whole play has to change."

" _On my way."_

* * *

Clint shifted through the air ducts, stopping above what he determined was a linen closet. He pushed the vent cover out and set it on the metal shelf just to the right of the opening. He leaned out of the vent, doubling at the waist and hooking his hands on the edge of the duct next to his hips. Then he easily flipped out of the vent, landing in an athletic crouch. Immediately, he unzipped the black coveralls he was wearing, revealing his perfectly cut and fitted black tuxedo beneath. Natasha had insisted that if he was going to be crawling around in venting systems, he needed to protect the astronomically expensive tux.

He balled up the coveralls and climbed the nearest shelf, tossing them back into vent and replacing the vent cover. He rolled his shoulders, longing for the feeling of his quiver across his back. He felt naked without his weapons. Even his beloved knife was back at the safe house right now. Natasha had reluctantly informed him that with the cut of his tux jacket, the hilt of the blade was too noticeable. Clint had marked that as another tally against formal wear.

He stretched his neck, checked the room to make sure he hadn't left any trace, and blew out a deep breath. He straightened his bow tie, tied by Natasha, and smoothed his jacket. And then he pressed his ear to the door and rested his hand on the door knob.

The whole house was open for the event, even the second floor. The last thing he needed was some couple sneaking off for a rendezvous to see him sneaking out of the closet. He waited for a giggling woman and her deep voiced companion to pass, waited for a door down the hall to open and shut, and then eased his own door open.

The hallway, as he'd hoped, was clear and he pulled the closet shut behind him and headed for the stairs. He found her with his eyes before he'd even taken the first step. She was standing at the bar, conversing lightly with one of the bartenders.

"How do you want to play this?" he asked quietly as he made his way down the stairs. She was the expert at this part of their job. She knew what they'd need to do to get Moreno's attention. He'd go with whatever play she chose, because  _this_  was her element. Give him a job where he needed to  _not_  be noticed and he'd be all over it. Drawing attention, the  _right_  kind of attention, wasn't his thing. So he would gladly defer to her.

She laughed at something the bartender said.

" _Why_ _monsieur_ _, you don't even know me."_

"Strangers meeting eyes across the room it is."

He reached the first floor and weaved his way casually to the other end of the bar.

"May I get you a drink, sir?" the nearest bartender asked politely.

"Scotch, neat," he requested, scanning the room. Natasha laughed lightly again at something another guest was saying to her and he allowed himself to focus on her. He was still watching her when she casually looked around and met his eyes.

She smiled one of those seductive little smiles and he took that as his cue. He accepted his drink from the bartender and moved. He made his way to her side slowly, but purposefully. The man that was trying, poorly from what Clint could gather, to flirt with her looked startled when Clint suddenly appeared on her other side. Something in his eyes must have warned the guy off, because he made a quick exit after that.

"You're welcome," he smirked in a flawless French accent.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. It would have looked genuine to anybody but him. He knew she was just playing her part.

"Pourquoi?"  _(For what?)_  she purred.

"Pour vous sauver,"  _(For saving you)_ he smirked. "Où habitez-vous en France?"  _(Where do you live in France?)_ **  
**

"Qui dit que j'ai besoin d'être sauvée. Et je vis à Paris. Vous?" _(Who said I needed saving? And I live in Paris. You?)_

"Paris," Clint repeated smile, he noticed the bartender Natasha had been talking to eyeing them.

"Peut-être nous nous sommes déjà croisés sans le savoir."  _(Perhaps we have seen each other and did not know it.)_

"Non. Je me serai souvenu d'une femme comme vous,"  _(_ _No. I would have remembered a woman like you.)_ he murmured. Natasha smiled, watching Moreno out of the corner of her eye. It was kind of fun, pretending to meet Clint for the first time. Of course their real first meeting hadn't been quite so playful. Or polite.

"Another drink for the lady," Clint motioned at the nearest bartender and then leaned forward to whisper in her ear. To an observer, he looked like a man trying to seduce her. "Where is she?"

Natasha resisted the urge to shiver as his breath ghosted across her neck.

"Your seven o'clock," she replied in the same soft tone. "Long black hair, dark eyes, red dress."

"Let's get her attention," Clint urged.

She pushed him back suddenly, a silky smile on her lips. "Monsieur, such words are best reserved for a more private setting," she purred. "Allow me one moment to freshen up and perhaps we can find that more  _private_  setting."

She turned away as Clint smirked in victory at the bartender. He turned to Natasha, alarmed when there was a crash and she let out a shriek. She was standing with her hands out from her body, staring in horror at the front of her dress. A waiter was staring in equal horror at the red wine dripping its way down her front.

"Forgive me!" the waiter gasped, reaching with a rag as if to wipe at the growing stain, only to draw away under the heat of her glare.

"My dress!" she gasped. There was a flash of red in her peripheral vision.

"Back to the kitchen," Alexandra Moreno ordered sharply. She turned to Natasha. "Oh, it is ruined, isn't it?"

Natasha wasn't surprised Moreno seemed so  _normal_. Evil rarely seems evil upon first meeting.

"Are you alright?" Clint asked, moving to Natasha's side and injecting himself into the conversation.

"Yes, thank you," Natasha made a show of calming herself and grasped his arm for thanks. "I was just surprised. And now…" she motioned at her ruined dress.

"Well, that is a problem that can be easily fixed," Moreno smiled. "I am good friends with the owner of this house, I am sure she has something for you to wear."

"Oh, I could never," Natasha shook her head, but Moreno was already motioning to a woman across the room.

"I insist," Moreno trailed off meaningfully.

"Isabelle," Natasha answered the implied question.

"Isabelle," Moreno smiled. They both smiled at the tall, slender woman who came to stand with them. "Elizabeth, my friend Isabelle has had an unfortunate accident. I told her I was sure you'd be able to accommodate her."

"Of course," Elizabeth smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. Natasha got the distinct feeling that Moreno wasn't the only evil in the room. The hostess motioned at someone to their left. A young girl in a service uniform appeared next to them. "Ana, take Isabelle to my room and help her find something to wear."

"Thank you, Elizabeth," Moreno smiled and Elizabeth walked away immediately.

Natasha and Clint shared a quick glance. This wasn't even her house and Moreno was commanding the room.

"There you go," Moreno motioned towards Ana.

"I suppose if you insist," Natasha smiled.

"We do," Eduardo Moreno spoke for the first time. "We will have a fresh drink waiting for you when you return."

"And we'll take good care of your new friend," Alex looked Clint up and down with a smile.

Natasha smiled, but seethed inwardly at the look the woman was giving him. Apparently Moreno had been watching them already, enough to know they'd just met. That was good. It meant they'd drawn her interest in one way or another and it should be easier to get her away from the crowd. Even if it was just under the guise of making new friends.

Ana motioned for her to follow and Natasha did.

"And you are?" Alex asked Clint with a sultry smile, her husband, standing right next to her, didn't seem to notice or mind. Or if he did, he didn't show it. Clint supposed if his wife was the evil mastermind behind one of the worst crime syndicates in the world, he'd let her do whatever the hell she wanted too.

"Remy," Clint answered with a smile of his own. Two could play this game.

"Remy," she purred his fake name and motioned to the bartender, "a drink for my new friend, what were you drinking, Remy?"

"Scotch, neat."

She nodded at the bartender and Clint heard the clink of a fresh glass being retrieved.

"Have you been in the city long, señor?" she asked, accepting a drink from the bartender that she hadn't needed to ask for and handing Clint his scotch.

"No, not long and I'm sorry to say I am returning to Paris tomorrow."

"Shame," Alex murmured, eying him in the same predatory way he'd seen Natasha eye men before. He resisted the urge to shiver. "I too must leave the city soon and return to my home in Madrid."

"Shame," Clint parroted, taking a sip from his drink. "What is it that you do in Madrid?"

"I'm work in international relations," Moreno replied with a slight smile. "My business requires me to travel quite a bit and I do not get to visit my home in Madrid often. I am looking forward to spending some time there. For while I have many houses across the world, I have only one home."

"I know exactly what you mean," Clint smiled knowingly. He did know. He may not have mansions all over the world, but he'd lived in a lot of places. There was only one home to him though and she was upstairs getting changed right now.

"What brings you to Budapest, Remy?" her husband asked amicably.

"My work. I'm a writer and I've found travel brings inspiration."

"And have you been inspired?" Alex asked, eyeing him curiously.

"Indeed I have," he smiled.

* * *

"Oh this is beautiful," Natasha smiled as she twisted in front of the large mirror and examined her borrowed dress. It was a silky black gown with a snuggly fitting torso, a scooping neckline, and delicate black lace straps. "Thank you, Ana."

The maid smiled and nodded, leaving the room.

Natasha moved to follow, inwardly chuckling at the contrast between her two dresses tonight. She pulled open the door and froze. There were six men with guns pointed at her. They forced her back into the room and closed the door.

She watched them circle her.

"Is there a problem, boys?" she asked, French accent gone, because it was obvious the ruse was over. How she'd been made, she wasn't sure.

"Señora Moreno asks that you come quietly."

"She must not know me very well."

With that Natasha attacked.

* * *

Clint listened to Natasha thank the girl that had helped her and nodded at something Moreno's husband was saying, he'd missed what the man was talking about.

Everything in Clint froze.

He didn't just  _miss_  what people were talking about. Hell, he could read lips so that he would  _never_  miss what people were talking about. Something was wrong. He felt a sudden drowsiness sweep through him and his usually sharp thoughts were growing fuzzy and disjointed. His limbs were starting to feel lethargic.

He looked down at his drink, half gone now. And then up at Moreno and her husband. They were both watching him carefully, not looking the least surprised by his confusion as he reached to steady himself on the bar.

"My dear, I think you may have had too much to drink," Alex smiled silkily at him.

_Shit._

He'd been drugged.

* * *

Natasha drove her heel into the nearest man's knee, snatched his knife from the sheath on his belt and used it to slit up the side of her dress, giving her legs room to move. She used the knife to slit the man's throat and then threw it at a man approaching from her right, lodging it in his neck.

She ran at the next man, turning to knock his gun away with her right hand. She spun, pressed her back to his chest, wrapped her left arm up and around behind his neck, and then threw her body up, flipping backwards over his shoulder to scissor her ankles around the next man's neck. She shifted her arm so it was still wrapped firmly around the man's neck and then she twisted her body, sending all three of them to the ground. Both of her adversary's necks broke with a crack.

* * *

Clint set his glass down with a crack, backing away from them instinctively. He heard Natasha's accent return to normal heard her say something about someone not really knowing her. He couldn't hear much else, but he knew if she wasn't telling him what the hell was going on, she was fighting someone.

They were blown. Somehow.

"My dear Remy, you are looking rather unsettled," Alex Moreno purred sadly, wrapping a firm hand around one of his elbows.

Her husband appeared on his other side, grasping his other elbow tightly. Together they urged him towards the back hallway. Clint tried to resist, but his muscles didn't seem to be listening and all he ended up doing was jerking his body a bit.

"Our driver will give you a ride to your hotel," Moreno continued her false placation as they forced him towards out of the main room and down the back hallway.

* * *

Natasha rose into a spread crouch, eyeing the two remaining men as they raised their guns. She was willing to bet her life that they wouldn't fire with the party going on downstairs.

So she did bet her life.

She sprung towards them. She kicked one gun away and knocked the other loose with her hands. Then she twisted her body sideways into the air, locking her legs around one man's neck and bracing her hands on the other's shoulders. She twisted her body, snapping the first man's neck with her thighs as she let gravity bring her feet back to the floor. As soon as her shoes landed, she shifted the hands she'd planted on the second man's shoulders, wrapping them around either side of his jaw. She braced herself, crouched, and twisted him up and over her shoulder, slamming him to the ground in front of her.

She straightened and moved for the door.

"Clint, we've been made," she warned. When nothing but silence greeted her, she paused, "Clint?"

* * *

Clint was growing dangerously close to dead weight when they got to the car waiting behind the house. He watched through hazy vision as Moreno pulled a silver briefcase out of the back seat and popped it open. She withdrew a syringe with a clear substance inside it and moved towards him.

Adrenaline surged through him and he jerked away, managing to dislodge her husband's grip. The driver, who he hadn't noticed slip behind him, suddenly wrapped his arms around Clint in a firm bear hug. Clint didn't usually not notice things.

He hated drugs.

Moreno stepped up to him and smiled.

"You should choose better company, Remy. I'm sorry it had to come to this, but we can have no witnesses."

With those ominous words, she plunged the syringe into his neck.

Clint flinched and tried again, uselessly, to fight back as the new drug surged into his system.

"I'm sorry to tell you that this will be very painful," Moreno almost  _did_  sound sorry as she lightly caressed the side of his face. Clint flinched away. "Get rid of him," her voice was suddenly harder. "He travels often, no one will miss him until it's too late."

As the driver unceremoniously dumped him into the trunk and slammed it closed, Clint's increasingly muddled mind came to a realization.

They didn't know who he was.

 _"Clint, we've been made,"_  Natasha's voice sounded far away, and for a moment he almost didn't process it.  _"Clint?"_

 _"_ Drugged," he managed to force out around a tongue that suddenly felt too dry.

_"Dammit. Where are you?"_

"Trunk," he mumbled. "Moving. They don't know," he continued disjointedly.

_"Clint, I just told you they **do**  know. I just killed six guys that came after me with guns."_

Clint groaned in frustration and pressed his hands to his eyes, willing away the headache that was rising. He forced his mind to clear enough to tell her what he was trying to get across.

"They d-don't know abou-about me," he stated in a stuttering whisper.

She was silent for a moment.

_"Try to stay awake, Clint. I'm coming."_

Clint nodded, and forced his eyes open where they'd fallen closed. He stared into the darkness of the trunk and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep his head clear.

* * *

Natasha closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow. Clint had been drugged, put in a trunk, and was being taken somewhere. But they didn't know who he was. She had a distinct feeling that they knew  _exactly_  who she was, how, she had no clue.

Quickly, she yanked open her purse as she moved quickly down the upstairs hallway. She pulled out every form of ID she had with the name Isabelle Dubois on it and stopped to slide them behind a wall radiator.

They already had Clint, believed he was a man named Remy. When they searched him for ID they would identify him as Remy Dubois. If she was caught too, she didn't want anyone drawing a connection between them. He was safer if they thought he was just a bystander.

At least she hoped he was.

She made her way quickly down the stairs and back into the party. A glance around the room showed no Morenos of any kind. She wove her way towards the front door as quickly as she could without drawing attention.

She stepped out into the cold night, wishing she had her coat. She saw a taxi waiting down the block, no doubt hoping a party guest would be in need of a ride. She raised her hand to motion him forward.

He had just pulled to a stop when police sirens suddenly filled the air around her. She looked around to see four police cars pull up, pinning the taxi in and trapping her.

"Don't move!" one of the officers shouted in heavily accented English.

Natasha glared and slowly raised her hands.

"Yes, officers, this is the woman." Elizabeth suddenly strode up from the path at the side of the house. Alex Moreno was following a step behind her. "She stole my dress and attacked my staff."

Natasha glared darkly at Moreno.

"Really?" she scoffed. "That's your play here." All pretenses of her French heritage were forgotten.

"I want her arrested," Elizabeth demanded as Moreno smirked darkly at Natasha.

"Take her to the station on 5th street," Moreno instructed, shifting forward and taking control of the situation.

"Yes, ma'am."

Natasha shook her head in disbelief as several officers trained their guns on her while three more approached to handcuff her. Moreno moved closer, so she could speak to Natasha more subtly.

"You have information I want, but that doesn't' mean I'll hesitate to have you killed. So I would go quietly if I were you."

Natasha let her best Black Widow glare shine through her eyes. She wanted to fight so badly it literally was driving her crazy. But Clint was out there somewhere with drugs in his system and if she was going to be of any help to him, she needed to get some information of her own.

So she allowed herself to be restrained and escorted to a police car.

* * *

Clint flinched to hazy awareness when the trunk opened. He was grabbed by his jacket and yanked roughly from the cramped area. He was still trying to decide if his feet were going to be able to hold him up when a fist to the face solved the problem for him.

He fell heavily to the ground, unable to do anything more than lie there and blink blearily. Rough hands patted him down, retrieving his wallet, watch, cufflinks, and shoes.

"We have to rough him up a little more if it will be believable." A distant voice came from somewhere above him. It was all the warning he got before a boot slammed into his side, forcing him to curl in on himself.

He lost his tenuous hold on consciousness after only the second hit to his face.

* * *

Natasha allowed herself to be escorted into the police station, through the main area, and back to the jail cells. She was led to the farthest one back and she allowed them to force her inside.

They pushed her roughly against the hard wall and she waited until her first wrist was restrained in the set of metal restraints hanging from the wall before she struck.

She flipped her arm, arching the chain now linked to it into the air and wrapping it around one of the obviously dirty police officer's neck. She jerked the chain tight and slammed her stiletto heeled shoe into the man's back. She heard the satisfying sound of his neck breaking and smirked.

She loosed the chain, letting the man fall even as she brought her other hand up into the second man's stomach. He doubled. She trapped his head under her arm and brought her knee up it his face. Then she pushed him back and slammed her foot into his groin.

"Hey!"

There were suddenly several men outside her cell and guns pointed at her. She raised her hands.

"Oops."

They were noticeably rougher with her after that and by the time they left her alone, she had a split lip and a developing shiner. But they'd been afraid of her, she'd seen it in their eyes. That's what she'd wanted.

"Clint?" she called in a low whisper, careful that she couldn't be overheard. Nothing but silence greeted her. "Clint?" she tried again refusing to be worried yet. Still no response. "Clint if you can hear me just make a noise, any noise, let me know you're there."

But there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 4
> 
> Well well, our assassins are each in their own kind of pickle. Natasha seems in control of her situation, for the moment at least. Clint, not so much.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview!
> 
> "Miss Romanoff, may I call you Natasha?"
> 
> Natasha just kept her glare icy and didn't answer. Moreno smiled as if pleased with the response.
> 
> "Did you really think a woman with a reputation like yours could walk into a party being attended by a guest like me and not be noticed?"
> 
> "I've walked into bigger parties with more important people," Natasha shrugged carelessly, "and been gone before the body fell."


	5. Keep Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear._

**_Ambrose Redmoon_ **

* * *

Cold.

That was the first thought that filtered into Clint's muddled brain.

He was cold. Every part of him. The air around him was cold too and so was the hard ground beneath his body. That thought made him frown.

Ground? Why the hell was he on the ground?

The desire to figure out what was going on had him forcing his heavy eyes open. He saw pavement. His brain started chugging along more quickly and he associated the rough surface under his cheek with the pavement he was staring at.

Slowly, he pulled his arms beneath him and pushed himself up to a hunched, but seated position. He looked around in confusion, seeing a dark alley and nothing more.

_What the hell had happened?_

Then he remembered. Moreno. The mission. Natasha.

 _Natasha_.

The thought of his partner had him surging unsteadily to his feet, only to stumble heavily to the left. He hit the wall of the alley with a jarring thud and only barely managed to stay on his feet.

"What the hell?" he mumbled, his hand going to his aching head. No, aching wasn't the right word. Exploding head felt more accurate. He looked around again, trying to figure out why he felt so  _wrong_.

Another memory hit him. Moreno jabbing him in the neck with a syringe. His hand shifted to brush against the bruise on his neck and the small puncture at the center of it.

" _I'm sorry to tell you that this will be very painful."_

He leaned heavily against the wall off the alley.

_"You should choose better company, Remy. I'm sorry it had to come to this, but we can have no witnesses."_

No witnesses. An injection. An evil criminal mastermind. That only really added up to one result.

He'd been poisoned.

_Perfect._

He vaguely remembered realizing they didn't know who he really was. Then there was Natasha's voice, telling him they'd been made. Where was she? Had she gotten away? Was she even still alive?

The questions swirled through his confused brain and he finally reached for the comm. in his ear. It was still there, he felt it almost immediately.

"Tasha?"

There was no response.

"Natasha?" he tried again with the same result. Frowning, he pulled the comm out of his ear and looked at it. There was a small, finite crack. He tossed it away.

"Okay, Clint, think," he coached quietly. But it hurt to think. His hands went to his head once again and he felt the dried blood for the first time. A short search found a cut on the edge of his hairline to be the source. Now that he was thinking about it, he could feel bruises forming on his abdomen and back and a nice shiner blooming on his cheek.

He had a flash of men taking his wallet and watch.

They wanted it to look like a mugging, which meant that whatever they'd injected him with was probably untraceable. He glanced down, blinked at his socked feet. Apparently they'd taken his shoes too.

"Okay, get it together," he muttered, pushing off the wall.

He was unprepared for the sharp spasm of pain that tore through his abdomen. It was like every muscle from his hips to his ribs just locked up in a painful, hard rock. He couldn't help his gasp of pain, or the stumbling step as he doubled. Only a quick hand bracing against the ground kept him from toppling.

"Jesus," he gasped as the muscle cramp passed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, gathering his strength. He pushed himself up, opened his eyes and came face to face with Josia Fourie. His eyes widened and he lashed out with his fist, knocking the man back. He pursued him, throwing another punch that met nothing but air. Clint looked around wildly, but Fourie was gone.

He sensed a presence behind him and spun, and felt the sharp pain of a knife slicing into his stomach. Fourie's hateful eyes glared at him with a triumphant smirk. Clint gasped in pain, blinked, and then jerked around. Fourie was gone. He looked down at his stomach, but there was no knife, no blood.

"The hell?" he mumbled.

"I know your face,  _duiwel."_   _(demon)_

Clint spun seeing Fourie a few steps away, pointing a gun at him. The man fired and Clint ducked away, feeling the spray of shattered brick biting into his cheek as the bullet cracked into the wall behind him. He looked around again, but Fourie was gone. He looked at the wall and the bullet hole was gone too. His hand went to his cheek, but the wall fragments he'd felt cut into the skin were gone and there was no trace of the stinging cuts he'd felt a moment ago.

Clint's felt his breathing speed up to match his increasing heart rate. He spun around, searching for any sign of his most recently cultivated enemy. Fourie was gone. Clint moved in the direction of the mouth of the alley, wincing as a muscle cramp ripped through his left arm.

"I will find you."

Clint spun, feeling the man's breath as he spoke from right behind him. Fourie lunged at him and Clint lurched backwards, his back cracking against the alley wall. The man was on him, pressing him against the wall and holding a knife hovering above his left eye.

"What would the Hawkeye be without his eyes?" Fourie hissed.

Clint pushed him away, only to frown when the man was suddenly and abruptly nowhere to be seen. Clint stayed against the wall, glancing around with gasping breaths. He was alone again. A sudden shiver racked through his body, reminding him he was barely wearing any protection from the biting cold. With one last look around, he ran for the mouth of the alley, bursting out into the street and only barely managing to avoid getting hit by a black car. He turned in a circle, seeing Josia at the mouth of the alley, just watching him.

Clint backed up a few steps and then every muscle on his back seized up into a rock of solid pain. He gasped and continued his backwards trek at a stumble. His head pounded harder as his heart rate continued to climb.

"Is that what you fear, Hawkeye?" Clint spun to his right to see Abrehem Fourie standing casually next to him. "Being worthless?"

Clint frowned. Abrehem Fourie was dead. He'd killed him himself just over three months ago. He blinked and the man was gone. He turned back to the alley, Josia was gone too. Clint's drug-muddled brain came to a startling realization.

Hallucinations.

The Fouries weren't here. Josia hadn't found him. It was in his head. A sudden blaring of a car horn and blinding white of headlights gave him just enough warning to scramble the rest of the way out of the street. He heard a shouted curse out of a cracked window as the car sped by.

Clint watched the car disappear and found his eyes zeroing in on the street sign on the corner. Almost unbidden, a map of the city came to the forefront of his mind. He needed to get back to the safe house. If Natasha had gotten away, that's where she'd be.

* * *

Natasha carefully pulled one of the hidden clips from her hair. Her wrists were still encased in metal shackles and were suspended at about her shoulder height. When she was standing, she was able to move her arms with relative freedom, as long as she didn't want to move them more than two feet away from the wall. When she was crouching, her wrists were forced above her head. Staying like that for too long made her hands start to go numb, so she'd been standing for a while now. By her nearest count, it had been over three hours since everything had gone to hell. Moreno still hadn't made her appearance, but Natasha knew it would be soon.

The woman was trying to make her sweat. She obviously didn't  _really_  know who she was dealing with.

She bent the metal hair clip this way and that, shaping it into the form she needed. When she was satisfied, she used it to unlock one of her restraints. It popped open easily. She smirked and clicked it closed again. Then she slipped the makeshift key carefully between her left breast and her dress. Once she knew what they'd done with Clint, she could make her grand exit. But until then, she was satisfied to know that her escape was as planned as it could be.

"Clint? Can you hear me?" she'd been trying to raise him on their comms consistently every twenty minutes or so. To her increasing concern, she'd gotten no more response than before. Nothing greeted her but blank silence.

Pushing away her worry, she tuned her ears to the conversation taking place amongst the men holding her captive. They were speaking Hungarian. Talking about her and Alex Moreno. Apparently this little station had been on Moreno's payroll for a while. They talked about her with respect, awe, and a healthy dose of fear. They talked about Natasha like she was the devil's own daughter.

That made her smirk. That would work in her favor.

She listened for a few more minutes, but the conversation turned to matters that didn't interest her. With a sigh, she leaned back against her cell wall, curling her toes against the cold floor. They'd taken her shoes. She'd liked those shoes.

Her thoughts turned back to her partner.

She'd only been able to learn a few vital pieces of information from him before they'd lost contact. The most important to her right now was that he'd been drugged. It had to have been something with sedative qualities. That was the only explanation as to why he'd been subdued so easily. Clint, for as long as she'd known him, had never gone quietly. Whatever they'd slipped him had to have been strong and fast acting. He'd sounded so lethargic and muddled the last time she'd heard him, it was hard to associate the memory with her partner.

Clint was controlled energy. His highly trained body was often bursting with unused energy, leading him to do things like acrobatics across their training room rafters or throwing a bouncy blue ball with unerring accuracy at a scribbled X on the wall. He liked to move, he liked to be active. But he also knew how to control that energy. She'd seen him go from almost bouncy, rambling activity to complete and utter stillness in a fraction of a second. And he'd stay still like that for hours if he had to. She'd been on the other side of his comm once while he was at roost for a sniper hit. Coulson had been sitting with her as they listened to Clint ramble on about this and that, passing the time in the best way he knew how. But she'd known for a fact that he hadn't moved any muscle but the ones that his mouth used for the entire six hours he'd lay hidden in his perch. And when the target arrived, the rambling had stopped immediately and he'd been all business.

There were more startling ways he controlled the energy, though. Like when someone pissed him off. He could go from smirks and energetic sarcasm to a stone cold, ice like expression in a moment, all of his energy focused on whoever had drawn his ire. Or like when he fought hand to hand. He never wasted a movement in hand to hand fighting. He controlled all his energy and strength so perfectly that it took him forever to get tired in a fight.

And his mind. That was a whole different type of energy. He was smart, smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for, except for Coulson. Coulson knew exactly how smart the archer was and nurtured that intelligence as best he could. She was fascinated by it more often than she wasn't. He could do complex math in seconds without ever picking up a calculator. He could read through a report once and remember it. He could look at a map for a few minutes and then drive through a city like he'd lived there his whole life. He was always thinking, always analyzing, always planning.

Which made his lethargy and barely enunciated words four hours ago all the more worrying.

* * *

Clint stumbled up to their SHIELD safe house, pressing his icy hand to the palm reader and curling his other arm around the cramping muscles in his abdomen. He stared at the green light above the palm reader for several seconds without comprehension before he pulled the door open and moved inside.

It took him a moment of looking around to realize Natasha wasn't there. If she'd gotten away she'd be here. As if things weren't bad enough already.

The first thing he did was strip out of the stained tux he was wearing and pull on his more normal attire, with a few additions to account for the fact that he was  _freezing_. He pulled on his layered zip sweatshirt and leather jacket over long sleeved Under Armour and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Dark jeans were next and then he pulled on his thickest socks, laced up his boots and stood hunched over the heater for almost ten minutes before he started to feel less like a piece of ice.

It was only then that he moved towards their gear, spread out across the kitchen table. He was reaching for their satellite phone when the next pain ripped through him. This one was different, more localized, about where his stomach was. He doubled, with a gasp, accidentally knocking the phone and several other things onto the floor with his suddenly flailing arm.

"God damn it," he gasped, breathing through the pain and the sudden nausea rolling through him. He went braced his hand on the table and leaned over for the phone. He barely got his hand around it before he was tripping over his own feet to get to the bathroom.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he hunched over the toilet, drying heaving long after he'd expelled everything in his stomach, but by the time the fit passed, he was trembling. He anchored one hand on the edge of the sink and kept the other wrapped tightly around the satellite phone. He pulled himself up with a groan and flipped on the faucet, scooping water into his mouth to rinse out the taste of bile.

Then he got his first good look at himself.

There was blood still dried on the side of his face. He was ghostly pale and his pupils were dilated so much he could barely make out the color of his irises around them. It was only then that he realized he had turned off almost every light in the safe house without even realizing it. Even the meager light filtering in from the kitchen was making his headache worse.

He drew in a deep breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth. Then he dialed the satellite phone.

"This is Agent Barton," he paused, wincing at a shot of pain through his head, "ID 4-9-4-7-6-2-Delta-Zulu. Confirm the line is secure."

" _Line is secure."_

"Get me Agent Coulson."

" _Hold for Agent Coulson."_

Clint flipped the faucet on again, wetting a washcloth and wiping at the blood on his face.

" _This is Coulson."_

"Phil," Clint sighed in relief.

" _What happened?"_

Phil always seemed to just  _know_  when something was wrong.

"We've got a problem." Clint's eyes went to the puncture wound on his neck, so small that if it weren't for the faint bruise he wouldn't know where to look for it. "For one, Moreno was a chick."

_"What?"_

"Yeah, that was a fucking fantastic surprise," Clint muttered and continued before Phil could respond, "And I think she's got Natasha."

" _You think?"_

"I don't know for sure."

" _How do you not know, Clint?"_  Phil didn't sound angry, just surprised. Clint knew it wasn't like him to lose track of his spider. He also knew Phil knew that.

"We got separated."

" _What aren't you telling me?"_ Phil asked knowingly.

Clint eyes went to the puncture wound again.

" _Clint?"_ his handler prodded.

"They slipped something in my drink. It was stupid, I should have been more careful."

" _You were drugged."_  Clint had heard that tone in his handler's voice before. Something between worry and fear with a dose of genuine concern mixed in. Clint caused that tone a lot.

"Whatever it was, it was strong. I could barely even form a coherent thought. They didn't know who I was," Clint explained, "they shot me up with something in the neck and stuffed me in the trunk of a car. Next thing I know I'm waking up in an alley."

" _You were drugged_ _ **twice**_ _."_  There was definitely worry in his handler's tone now, a lot of it.

"Yeah." Clint didn't really know how else to respond. Instead, he just rubbed a hand across his forehead, wondering how he could still feel so cold when his skin felt so hot.

" _Do you have any idea what they gave you?"_

"The first one was just a sedative I think. Strong and fast, but not very long lasting. The sluggishness is finally wearing off and my brain is working better now. I don't know what the second one was, but it has some side effects."

" _What side effects?"_

"Muscle cramps, headache, nausea, dilated pupils, fever," Clint paused, jerking around when he saw the reflection of someone in the mirror of the bathroom. There was no one there.

" _Clint?"_

"Hallucinations," Clint added with a sigh.

" _You're hallucinating?"_

"Off and on. Nearly had a heart attack when Josia Fourie stabbed me in the stomach in the alley." Clint shook his head. In hindsight, it should have been obvious from the beginning that Fourie wasn't real when the man had stabbed him and then vanished. His head had been so jumbled at the time and it had _felt_  so real, right down to the pain of getting stabbed.

" _Are you hallucinating now?"_

"Not unless you're about to tell me you aren't real." Clint managed a weak grin.

Coulson huffed a slight laugh that was tempered by the worry Clint could  _feel_  rolling off the man even though they were thousands of miles apart.

" _You aren't that lucky."_

Clint's smile grew a little stronger. Banter was familiar. That familiarity made him feel more like he had some form of control.

" _I'll get a team together. We'll be on our way in under an hour."_

"Thought you had other ops to run," Clint pushed away from the sink, feeling steadier.

" _SHIELD's got their priorities…I've got mine. I'm on my way, Clint."_

Clint smiled, making his way into the main area of the safe house.

"I'm going to go back to the house to see if I can find anything. It's been over four hours since I was at the party. It should be over and cleared out by the time I get back there."

" _I'd tell you to just sit tight and wait for me to get there, but I know you'd ignore me. Let me know what you find."_

"Scout's honor."

 _"I saw the charges on the card, so we both know how much that means,"_ Coulson teased,  _"_ _Just be careful, okay? If your symptoms start worsening, get your ass back to the safe house and call me on my private line. I'll keep my phone patched in."_

"Will do, Phil."

" _I'm coming, Clint,"_ Phil promised once more.

"See you soon."

Clint dropped the sat phone on the table and leaned his hands against the flat wooden surface on either side of it. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply.

"You didn't tell him what Moreno said."

Clint's eyes snapped open, but he didn't turn around.

"You didn't tell him that she as much as told you whatever was in that syringe would kill you."

Clint, his heart rate rising without his consent, slowly turned.

There sitting on his cot across the room, lounging like he didn't have a care in the world, was Barney, his brother. He looked the exact same as the last time Clint had seen him just over eight years ago now. His thick black hair, always such a contrast to Clint's blonde, still looked wet from the rain that had been pouring down on them that fateful night. He was wearing the same faded and worn jeans, the same white wife beater tank top and grey zip up hoodie.

"It's nice to know you replaced me so easily," the older Barton spat angrily.

"You're not real," Clint stated in tone barely louder than a breath.

"Maybe not to anyone else," Barney shrugged, rising from Clint's cot and moving to stand toe to toe with his brother. "But I'm real in here," he tapped the side of Clint's head with his index finger.

Clint felt the pressure against his skin as if Barney  _were_  standing right in front of him, tapping him in the head. He felt his brother's breath against his cheek.

"And I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Phil didn't even have the phone properly hung up before he was moving. He stood from the seat at the large console he'd been monitoring the six different international teams on and ignored the way his chair slid sharply back against the railing four feet behind him.

He'd felt it. Deep in his bones he'd known something had gone wrong hours ago. He'd called their satellite phone dozens of times, but no one had ever answered. He had already submitted an extraction request with the Council. All their damn protocols when it came to  _suspected_  missing and/or compromised agents making the process so slow and arduous that if the problem turned out to be legitimate, it was probably too late. But if there was proof or a specific request for extraction, the process was unnecessary. The Council didn't even need to be notified.

And that was just fine by Phil.

He made his way quickly out of the control room, already dialing Fury on his cell.

_"Fury."_

"I need a team."

It spoke to Fury's trust in him that he didn't even ask why.

_"Our best are all in the field right now. So just pull whoever you need to from their current duties, provided they're field qualified."_

"Thank you."

 _"Are the both still alive?"_  Fury asked quietly. Coulson sighed deeply.

"As far as I know."

_"Get our people home."_

"Yes, sir."

He snapped his phone closed and headed to the training room. He pushed open the door and strode across the empty room to Agent Todd Bryan's office. He knocked once and then pushed the door open.

Todd looked up in surprise.

"I need you in the field," Coulson stated without preamble.

Agent Bryan frowned in confusion.

"Your field qualification is still up to date, right?" Phil prodded impatiently.

"Yeah, I have to stay qualified as the Lead Trainer. What's going on, Phil?"

"It's Clint and Natasha."

Todd stood before he even got the names out. Phil had known that would get him. Todd had been both of their general trainer when they'd come to SHIELD. He'd worked with Clint for a year and a half in general training and continued to serve as an occasional sparring partner for the following two and a half years until Clint and Natasha were partnered. He'd been Natasha's general trainer for her first year at SHIELD as well.

"What's the situation?" Agent Bryan demanded as they headed back through the training room to the main hall.

"Clint's got drugs in him and Natasha's missing. I want Dan from medical. He knows both of their medical history. Then pull together the best field agents we have left on base and meet me at the hangar in thirty minutes."

"You got it," Todd promised, taking off at a jog.

Coulson watched him go and took a moment, just a moment, to let the worry and fear come. Clint was drugged, Natasha was missing, and he was, at best, over nine hours away. He pulled in a deep breath and then blew it out. Then he pushed away that worry and that fear. He'd get his agents back. They were both strong enough to hang on until he got there.

He just had to hold up his end and get there.

* * *

Natasha looked up when she heard the sound of heels on the hard floor of the jail hallway. She shifted so that she was facing the cell door and leaned almost casually against the wall as she watched Alex Moreno come into view. No less than a dozen men trailed behind her, one of which was her husband.

Moreno looked different now, hours after the party had ended. Instead of her sultry red dress, she was wearing a sharp business suit, tailored to fit her every curve perfectly. The shoes she wore were expensive, shiny and black, with high pointed heels. Her long black hair was styled in long loose waves, giving her the look of a business executive instead of the leader of international crime syndicate.

"Miss Romanoff, may I call you Natasha?"

Natasha just kept her glare icy and didn't answer. Moreno smiled as if pleased with the response.

"Did you really think a woman with a reputation like yours could walk into a party being attended by a guest like me and not be noticed?"

"I've walked into bigger parties with more important people," Natasha shrugged carelessly, "and been gone before the body fell."

Moreno smiled again.

"I want her searched thoroughly," she ordered to the men with her, "and scan her for communication frequencies."

One of the men moved to unlock the cell.

"I've been told you don't work for yourself anymore, I'm willing to bet you've got someone looking for you. I intend to make sure you aren't found."

Two men with large guns moved to stand on either side of Natasha, both training their weapons on her unflinchingly. Both standing well out of reach, even if she had been free.

"You can resist if you want, try and fight your way free, but I promise you that you won't make it to the door. My men have standing orders to shoot you if you so much as glance at any of them in a way they find threatening. You may have information I  _want_ , but it is by no means information I  _need_. Are we clear, Natasha?"

Natasha glared at her and then at the men moving towards her.

"Perfectly," she hissed at the woman.

"I knew you'd be reasonable."

Natasha allowed the man to approach her, staring darkly at Moreno the entire time.

_You're not the one that's going to be getting information, bitch._

Natasha had been manhandled by men before, in her line of work, you got the occasional jackass that had no respect for women. She usually put them in their place fairly quickly. This time, with Moreno's threat and worry for Clint at the forefront of her mind, she allowed the roving, greedy hands to search her, and could only shrug innocently when her makeshift key was found.

She thought she saw Moreno smile approvingly.

Every pin and clip was taken from her hair after that, leaving it to fall in its normal long curls. When the manual search was finally done, a man stepped forward with what she instantly recognized as a frequency scanner.

She had a sudden vision of an eighteen year old Clint Barton facing a similar device with the knowledge that there was a device implanted in his molar that was going to be found. And knowing  _exactly_  what would happen when it was. She understood with startling clarity how he must have felt.

Because she knew exactly what would happen when they found hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 5
> 
> Ah! Parallelism between Clint torture and Natasha torture! :O There's a reason I had them find Natasha's comm in her tooth, not just because its hard to come up with good, non debilitating torture methods, but a REAL reason lol :)
> 
> Natasha's about to get the wump we've been waiting for and we're about to get neck deep in Clint's downward spiral as the poison takes hold. And just so everyone is clear, the Barney that Clint is hallucinating now and in later chapters is the Barney that his mind has concocted, he won't be the exact same character that we will meet in both "The Amazing Hawkeye" and "Not So Ancient History", which are planned stories.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> He listened to a rustle of paper and knew Phil would be looking at a map.
> 
> "I found it."
> 
> "He's going to tell you to wait," Barney leaned against the phone booth and crossed his arms.
> 
> "Shut up."
> 
> "Clint?"
> 
> "Not you."
> 
> There was a pause.
> 
> "Who are you talking to Clint?"


	6. You Know We'll Make It Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Wow - I am SO sorry this took so long in coming. I moved halfway across the country this past weekend and just got internet back. So I'll finish of this story tonight to make it up to readers. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will._

**_Gandhi_ **

* * *

Clint scaled the iron fence on the side of the property easily, dropping into an athletic crouch on the other side.

"You've picked up a few new tricks, I see," Barney smirked from where he was leaning against the fence with crossed arms. Clint steadfastly ignored him, as he had for the entire trek back here from the safe house. Instead he rolled his shoulders, taking a measure of comfort in the feeling of his quiver across his back. Dawn would be rising soon and he'd have to make sure he kept to the shadows so he didn't draw attention, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to leave it behind.

He came up to the side of the house and tracked his eyes up the path he would take.

"How exactly do you plan on getting in?" Barney asked with a scoff.

Clint couldn't help but smirk as he ran for the side of the house. He planted his foot on a windowsill, propelled himself up and off of it, driving his other foot into the side of the house next to a drain pipe. He hand over handed his way up the pipe quickly, hooking his hand on the outcropping of the first story roof, and levering his body easily up onto it. The house's second story was smaller than the first, giving him a large section of first story roof to climb on to. He moved along the roof until he got to the edge, taking a moment to gauge the distance between where he was standing and the windowsill he was aiming for.

"That was impressive," Barney allowed, stepping up next to him. "Brit would have been impressed."

Clint only barely bit back a snapping retort for Barney to  _not_  talk about Brit. The acrobat and trapeze specialist from Clint's carnival days had been one of Clint's closest friends, endeared even more to the archer because the man had been deaf. It had been Brit that had taught him to read lips. Barney and he had never gotten along. Barney didn't deserve to talk about him.

But he didn't retort like he wanted to, because Barney  _wasn't_  real.

He sighed and then he took one running step and jumped, he would have landed with the exact lightness and balance that he planned if not for the sharp cramp that spasmed through his back at the exact moment his boots landed on the window frame.

He flinched and fell, barely managing to get a hand around the wooden windowsill before he went tumbling to the ground.

"Graceful," Barney taunted from where he crouched on the edge of the roof Clint had just jumped from.

"Shut up," Clint found himself growling as he shifted so both his hands were on the sill and levered himself up. When he'd made his entry to this same house almost six hours ago now, he'd realized that there wasn't a security system to speak of. It hadn't been that surprising. The house was large but old and sparsely decorated. It was also in a part of the city generally not known for crime.

So he didn't hesitate to slam his elbow into the glass pane and shattered it, reaching through to unlock the window. He climbed into the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall and pressing a hand to his lower back, where the cramp had been the worst. He shakily wiped sweat off his forehead and glanced around.

Natasha had been up here when she'd been made. Knowing his fiery spider, there had been an altercation. If he could find the scene of it, he might be able to find a clue as to where she'd gone. It was a slim lead, but it's all he had at the moment.

It was a sudden painful rolling of his stomach that made him hunch and accidentally slam his shin into the wall radiator twenty feet after he'd passed the stairs. He breathed deeply through the urge to vomit food he didn't have in his stomach, and forced his eyes back open.

He cocked his head and leaned to look closer behind the radiator. There was a small bundle of flat objects. He fished it out and his eyebrows furrowed.

A passport, a driver's license, credit cards.

He flipped through them quickly. Every single one was under the name Isabelle Dubois, the ID's also bearing Natasha's picture. Clint sighed deeply and straightened with the support of a hand on the wall. She must have known she had a risk of being caught, and was trying to get rid of any tie to Remy Dubois, who they didn't think was anything but a mark to her.

She was protecting him. He would have done the same.

The new knowledge further solidified his suspicion that she'd been captured. He glanced up the hallway, past the radiator. There were several closed doors. More than likely, Natasha had passed that radiator on her way back to the party. She'd had to have come from one of those rooms. He supposed he could take the time to pick the locks, but impatience and a sense of urgency had him slamming his boot into the first door, right above the handle. Wood splintered and the door swung inward.

He knew by the smell that he was in the right room. Bleach. This room had gotten a heavy duty cleaning very recently. Probably because Natasha had left a trail of bleeding bodies. It took him less than two minutes to realize that he wasn't going to find any clues here.

"Now what?" Barney asked from where he was rifling through the drawers in a large, expensive looking dresser.

Clint ignored him and started out of the room, not surprised when Barney was suddenly in the hallway already and the dresser drawers looked untouched.

"How did you know there wouldn't be anybody here? Its dawn, shouldn't people be here? You know, sleeping?"

Clint answered before he realized what he was doing.

"Alex Moreno isn't one to leave a trail of witnesses lying around when something like this is going down. Guaranteed she had this place cleaned out within hours of tossing me in that trunk." Clint climbed back out the window and balanced on the wooden sill. "The owner of the house didn't sound local, her accent matched Moreno's. She probably cleared out as soon as Moreno said the word."

Clint eyed the roof he'd jumped from before.

"Even the staff?"

"Barney, they were both probably staying in a hotel in the heart of the city. This house was probably only open for the party last night and the staff were probably all one night hires."

Clint jumped, hooking his hands on the edge of the roof and then pulled himself up once again. Normally he would have probably jumped to the ground from there, but with the increasingly unpredictable and painful muscle spasms he didn't want to risk a bad landing.

So instead he moved back to the drain pipe and shimmied easily down it.

It wasn't until he was climbing back over the fence, and Barney was smirking at him when he landed on the other side that he realized he'd talked to the hallucination like he was real. What was more concerning was that during that conversation, Clint hadn't remembered even once that he  _wasn't._

* * *

Natasha eyed the metal chair they brought into her cell with a glare. Moreno, still on the other side of the bars, motioned for her men to move Natasha to that chair.

"In the molar, that's truly fascinating," Moreno mused, watching as Natasha was forced towards the chair. The assassin glared the whole way, biding her time. "Get it out," the woman barked as Natasha was handcuffed to the arms of the chair. She scowled when they handcuffed her ankles too. That would make things more difficult.

Natasha didn't flinch, not when the steel grip locked around her jaw and forced it open, not when the pliers were jammed into her mouth, and not when they locked around her molar. She  _did_ flinch when the man started pulling. Her hands curled into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms as an outlet for the pain. But she didn't make a sound.

Natasha had grown up with pain. She was an expert at channeling it. In the end she ended up straining against her handcuffs, bloodying her wrists with her struggles, but she didn't give them the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

When her tooth came free and the pliers were removed, Natasha spat blood at the man that had pulled it out. All she got for her rebellion was a firm backhand against her freshly abused cheek that made her eyes water and her breath leave her in a gasp.

"Enough," Moreno barked. "Leave us."

Natasha kept her face turned, allowing her long hair to protect her from view as she got a handle on the pain. So this is why Clint didn't like molar implants. She wasn't a big fan anymore, either. She looked up again when she heard another chair be set down.

Moreno was in the process of sitting down a few feet away from her and everyone else had cleared out.

"Now, Natasha, let's talk."

"Kind of asking a lot, don't you think?" Natasha arched a critical eyebrow, ignoring the way her words slurred a little. "Considering you just ripped out one of my teeth."

"I suppose it is. How about I do the talking and you just stop me if I make an error."

Natasha stared at her, waiting.

"You were sent to kill me."

Natasha raised her eyebrows a little in a 'duh' fashion. Moreno smirked.

"You conned your way into my party and pulled that poor young man into your scheme. What was his name? Oh yes, Remy Dubois."

Natasha showed no reaction, waiting, knowing that if Moreno was going to reveal what they'd done with Clint now would be the time.

"Handsome young man, it was a shame that you involved him in this. I'm sure I could have provided a more  _enjoyable_  way for him to spend his time than he's experiencing now." Moreno glanced at her watch. "Every person reacts on a different timeline. With his body mass," she hummed in thought, "I'd say he has maybe eight more hours before his heart fails. Of course the time between then and now will probably leave him wishing for death much earlier than that."

Outwardly, Natasha didn't show a reaction. She kept her expression locked down and her eyes ice cold. Inwardly, everything inside her froze painfully.

"You drugged him?" she asked with forced nonchalance.

"Yes, with a nasty little cocktail that my people have only just created. Maybe I'll name it The Dubois in his honor. Of course, I doubt that matters to you." Moreno smirked. "You're the famous Black Widow, to you he was nothing but a convenient cover."

Natasha shrugged an unconcerned shoulder, but inside her heart twisted. Clint was out there, somewhere, drugged and dying. And Natasha couldn't get to him. She blinked when Moreno spoke again.

"Who sent you, Natasha? Where is the man called Hawkeye that was sent with you? Tell me now and this does not have to become any more unpleasant for you."

Natasha just arched a challenging eyebrow and spit out a mouth full of blood. Moreno nodded and called for her men. Natasha mentally prepared herself. Her best opportunity for escape had passed, she knew that. Her best chance now was to lead them into a false sense of security and strike when the moment came.

This was her element. Moreno had already told her more than she'd told Moreno. She knew that Clint was alive, for now at least, that Moreno had a lab cooking up lethal drugs and that they  _still_  didn't know who Remy Dubois really was. That thought made her smirk. Drugged or not, Clint would be coming for her and when he did, she'd be ready.

She watched one of the men carry in a large jug of water and a cloth.

"Last chance, Natasha. Who sent you?"

Natasha just let her lips curl into a dark smile.

Her head was yanked back by her hair and the cloth was stretched over her mouth and nose. She closed her eyes and drew in a breath a second before the water started pouring over her face.

* * *

" _Natalia!"_

_Thirteen year old Natalia stepped up obediently, sitting down in the metal chair and watching as the girl collapsed on the floor next to her coughed harshly, expelling mouthful after mouthful of water._

_Her instructor, Ilya Glazov, roughly pulled Natalia's long curly red hair into a tie._

" _Head back!" Ilya snapped._

_Natalia immediately tilted her head backwards, struggling to control her panicked breathing._

" _Will you reveal information about the program in interrogation?" Ilya demanded._

"Нет," (No)  _Natalia replied._

" _In English!" Ilya barked. Natalia cursed in her head. They were practicing English now, learning to speak the words with no hint of their Russian heritage._

" _No," she spoke again._

" _We will make sure it is so."_

_Ilya stretched a cloth over Natalia's mouth and nose and the young girl closed her eyes, sucking in a breath just in time as the water cascaded over her face._

_The first time she'd trained for water-torture, Natalia had passed out and ended up with pneumonia. She learned to hold her breath after that. Now she was the only one in her class that could take the training without ever swallowing more than a few drops of water._

* * *

Natasha gasped as the cloth was pulled away, sucking air back into her starving lungs. She blinked, rapidly, dispelling the water from her eyes.

"How did you find out about the party?" Moreno asked.

Natasha stared at her, taking a moment to spit out more blood and shake her wet hair from her shoulders.

"Was I your only target?"

Natasha's interest piqued.

"How many of my lieutenants did you intend to kill last night?"

Natasha only acknowledged her surprise inwardly. Moreno's inner circle had been at that party last night and they hadn't even realized it. Her mind whirred as she wondered how many of those men were still in the city. How many of them were possibly in this building with her.

At Natasha's lack of response, Moreno motioned at the man with the jug.

Natasha's head was pulled back again and the cloth replaced. She held her breath as the water started flowing again. She could hold her breath for a long time, a skill learned out of necessity when she was a child. She'd never clocked an exact time, not like Clint and his six minutes and twenty six seconds. But she knew her limit rivaled his, the only reason it would be shorter would be because her lungs were smaller. But she knew she could hold her breath for however long Moreno carried on with this. It wouldn't be pleasant, it never was, but she could handle it.

She'd been trained to handle it before Moreno even dreamed of becoming a crime lord.

* * *

Clint stood hunched against the wall of the alley, his grey hood pulled low over his eyes and his arms crossed across his body. He tensed and doubled a little as another pain ripped across his lower back. He reached to adjust his dark sunglasses, wishing he could block out the sun completely. Every ray was compounding the already razor sharp pain that had taken up residence behind his eyes.

He snuck a glance at his watch before tucking his hand back under his armpit, hugging himself in an attempt to stave off the occasional trembles his body had succumbed to. It had taken him almost an hour after leaving the house to remember his old contact Dominik, a local who had ears on everything in the city. He'd found a payphone and called for a meeting. Dom had said he'd find out what was going on and meet Clint as fast as he could. That had been three hours ago.

"You look like shit, baby brother," Barney stated unhelpfully from where he leaned against the opposite alley wall, his dark eyes watching Clint with a kind of perverse enjoyment.

"Yeah, I bet that's just making your day," Clint grumbled back.

"I'm not hating it," Barney smirked. "It's kind of nice, seeing you knocked down a few pegs."

Clint shook his head.

"You always thought you were better than the rest of us, admit it, Clint."

"You know that's not true, Barney," Clint defended.

Barney scoffed.

"What did you do that was so worthwhile, huh?" Barney challenged. "What made you better than me?"

"I never said I was better than you," Clint argued.

"You might as well have! So you had pretty good aim, whatever, I had the quickest hands of anybody on the crew."

"Yeah, you used them to pick pockets at every show," Clint frowned. "And you wondered why Zane never gave you an act? You were nothing but a petty thief and he knew it. I just didn't see it until it was too late."

Barney smiled darkly.

"I should have aimed that knife better that night."

"Maybe you should have."

"Then you'd be put out of both of our misery, cuz that's all you ever were to me, Clint. A source of misery."

Clint opened his mouth to retort, but a movement to his left caught his eye.

"You okay, Jake?"

Clint stared at the man before him. His mind drawing a complete blank for only a moment.

"I'm fine, Dom," Clint finally replied. "What took you so long?"

"Like I told you on the phone, I was in the middle of something. I got here as fast as I could."

"Three hours was as fast as he could?" Barney sneered.

"You're right," Clint shook his head to try and clear it. "Thank you for coming."

"You sure, you're alright, Jake? You don't look so good."

"Do you have information for me or not?" Clint snapped.

"Yeah, I made a few calls. Word is there was a red head brought into the police station on 5th last night. But, Jake, that station's the worst in the city. Every one of those cops is getting paid by  _someone_."

"Thanks, Dominik." Clint held out a wad of bills.

"Don't worry about it," Dominik shook his head. "Consider us even for that time you saved my life."

Clint nodded.

"Hey, take care of yourself, okay?" Dominik added as he backed away.

"You too, Dom."

Clint watched his old contact from his last mission here walk away.

"Now what?" Barney asked. "Gonna ride in on a white horse?"

"Natasha doesn't need anybody riding in on a white horse," Clint huffed a little laugh as he headed the opposite direction Dominik had. "But she appreciates a helping hand when it's offered."

Clint's slight grin faded into a grimace as another pain ripped through him, a wave of cramps and spasms rode through the muscles in his abdomen and chest.

"I wonder what they'd say now," Barney commented as they walked, ignoring his brother's plight.

"Who?" Clint groaned, pausing to lean against the nearest wall to ride out the pain.

"Everybody at Carson's," Barney explained.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I wonder what they'd say now, if they saw  _you,_  their golden boy, working as a killer. Which one of us do you think they'd be more disappointed in?"

Clint let out a sudden, barely muted, cry when the pain in his abdomen was compounded by a twisting pain in his stomach. He almost went to his knees, but stayed upright by sheer force of will.

"Why?"

Clint forced his eyes open and looked to the voice at his left. A young woman, no older than twenty one with long flowing blonde hair and bright blue eyes, stood next to him. Clint almost fell in his haste to back away from her as blood blossomed across her throat and a red stain started growing from the arrow sticking out of her chest.

"Why did you kill me?"

Brianna Williams.

"What did I do?" she cried, reaching out to grab his arm.

"I'm sorry," Clint gasped, pushing her hand away. "I didn't think I had a choice."

"There's always a choice!" she shrieked.

"I'm sorry," he shook his head, backing away. He flinched when he ran into something solid. He turned to see his brother smirking down at him.

"What would they think of you now?"

Clint turned back to Brianna, a victim of a contract he'd taken years ago before SHIELD had found him. Before Phil had saved him from that life. But she was gone. Clint clenched his eyes shut and pressed his palms against them. He shifted his hands, digging them into his hair and curling his fingers into his scalp.

He just wanted his head to stop  _pounding_. He just wanted to be able to think straight for a minute without the pain distracting him. He wanted to stop seeing things that weren't there.

"You going to hurl?"

He opened his eyes to glare at Barney.

"Because if you puke on me, I'll kill you." Barney smirked darkly. "Oh wait, I already tried that. You have no idea how much I wish I was the one with perfect aim."

Clint pushed off the wall that was holding him up and shouldered by his brother, spying a pay phone on the corner and heading for it. He shoved money into it and jabbed his fingers against the buttons. He had to hang up and start over when he hit the numbers in the wrong order.

Finally, two tries later, he got the number sequence right. One ring and it connected.

"Extension 2136," he winced, reviewing in his head if he'd listed Coulson's private line correctly. He was pretty sure he had. He leaned his forehead against the top of the booth and continued when the operator prompted him. "ID 9-4-9," he paused grasping the edge of the phone base in frustration and groaning as pain ripped through his stomach, " ** _4-9-4_** -7-6-2-Delta-Zulu."

" _Routing to direct extension 2136."_

Clint waited. Protocol for call ins during a mission were to call the control room at SHIELD, let them secure the line, and then route him to whoever he needed to talk to. The call was then recorded and monitored. Calling a line directly was faster and no one listened in. Coulson had told him to call in like this, so he wasn't concerned about the protocol breach.

Though in all honesty, breaching protocol had never really been a huge issue for him.

" _Clint?"_

"I found her."

" _Where is she?"_

"In a local police station on 5th street."

He listened to a rustle of paper and knew Phil would be looking at a map.

" _I found it."_

"He's going to tell you to wait," Barney leaned against the phone booth and crossed his arms.

"Shut up."

" _Clint?"_

"Not you."

There was a pause.

" _Who are you talking to Clint?"_

Clint stared at the numbers on the dialing pad.

"He's going to think you're going crazy," Barney pointed out.

"He knows about the drugs," Clint argued.

"He's going to think you can't handle saving her."

"I can handle it!" Clint defended.

" _Clint!"_

"What?" Clint drew his attention back to the call.

" _Who are you seeing?"_

Clint hesitated. This was Phil. Phil wouldn't think he was going crazy. Barney was wrong.

"Barney."

There was another pause. When Phil spoke his voice was soothingly calm.

" _He's not really there, Clint, do you understand?"_

Clint winced at a fresh pain stabbing its way into his head.

" _He's not real, repeat it."_

Clint looked at his brother, who was watching him doubtfully.

" _Repeat it!"_  Coulson snapped.

"He's not real," Clint obeyed instinctively, his voice quiet.

" _Again."_

"He's not real," he repeated more confidently. He watched Barney smirk hatefully at him.

" _Again, Clint."_ Phil's voice had softened again.

"He's not real."

He blinked and then looked around wildly. Barney was gone. Clint sighed in relief.

"He's gone."

" _Good, Clint listen to me very carefully, I need you to tell me exactly how you feel right now."_

"I'm cold."

" _Okay, what else?"_  Phil asked soothingly.

"My head," Clint pressed a hand against his eyes, "it hurts. Everything makes it hurt, light, sound, movement, everything makes it worse."

" _What about the muscle cramps, are they still happening?"_  Phil's voice was calm, a balm on Clint's frayed nerves.

"Yeah."

" _Worse than before?"_

"Yeah. It's getting to where I can barely stay standing when they hit."

" _Anything else, Clint? How often are you hallucinating?"_

"I keep forgetting they're not real," Clint admitted abruptly. "I keep forgetting, Phil."

" _Clint, take a deep breath."_

"I don't forget things."

" _I know, deep breath, Clint, right now. Do it."_

Clint sucked in a breath, held it for a moment and then blew it out.

" _Are you forgetting anything else?"_

"No, but…"

Clint paused, frowning at a figure watching him from across the street. A car drove past, blocking his view. When it was gone, so was the person watching him. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it.

" _But what?"_

"I'm starting to confuse things."

" _Like what?"_

"The direct call in number. It took me three tries. I almost got the name wrong for the contact I met with to find out where she was. It took me two tries to get my ID out."

" _Okay, here's what I want you to do. Are you with me, Clint?"_

"Yeah."

" _I want you to go back to the safe house and wait for me there. We're just over three hours out, okay?"_

Clint frowned.

"But Tasha…"

" _She can survive three more hours, Clint. She handles these types of situations better than anyone. You know that."_

"But…"

" _No, Clint. You're getting worse. You need to go to the safe house and wait for me."_

"No."

There was a pause.

" _Clint."_  Coulson's voice had taken on that scolding, 'I know you're going to do something stupid' tone. Clint had heard it more than once in his tenure at SHIELD. Before Coulson could say anything further, Clint hung up.

He stared at the phone, listened to it start to ring a moment later as Coulson traced back the call and tried to get him back. He didn't pick it up.

"What were you saying about not riding a white horse?"

Clint closed his eyes. He slowly turned his head and opened them again.

"Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?" Barney taunted.

* * *

Phil stared at the phone in his hand.

"Phil?" Agent Bryan questioned him curiously.

"How far out are we?" Phil demanded, instead of answering.

"About three hours," the pilot responded.

"Get us there faster," Phil instructed sharply.

The rest of the team wisely averted their attention as Phil stared down at the phone again, willing it to ring. Willing Clint to call him back.

Clint was fading. He'd heard it in his voice. The normal vicarious energy that flowed through the man was gone. In its place was a weariness that Coulson would never have thought he would associate with Clint. Whatever he'd been injected with was draining him and Coulson refused to acknowledge the outcome that implied.

And of all the things to hallucinate, his betraying brother Barney was probably the worst. The emotional toll alone would be a lot for the young assassin to take. Clint had never really dealt with what had happened between him and his brother. He'd just internalized it and tried to forget. Now he would be forced to face it once again. That, on top of what he was battling physically, was going to do its own part and breaking Clint down.

And despite his confident words to Clint, he was worried about Natasha. The woman could handle interrogation better than anyone he knew, better than even Clint. And if that was what she was going through, he had no doubt that she'd already learned more about Moreno than their target even realized. Where Clint took whatever was thrown at him with a cocky smile and sarcastic comments, Natasha took it with manipulative silence.  _Something_  about her getting her targets to reveal things they never intended.

She'd no doubt be the one in control when they got to her. But that didn't mean she'd be unscathed. Phil didn't like it when his agents got scathed. The usually managed to avoid anything horribly serious, but Clint tended to attract trouble on his best days. So when he was having a not so good day, the shit usually hit the fan in a big way. Vietnam was a good example. Another was his mission in the Andes, years ago now. Then of course there was Paris, where Romanoff came into their lives. The end result of that one turned out to be for the better, but at the time it hadn't seemed that way. Coulson didn't even like thinking of Croatia.

This appeared to be one of those not so good days too and Phil knew that Budapest would go down as one of those missions they never forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 6
> 
> Natasha's holding her own for now, whew. Clint is trying to but not being very successful. Phil is trying not to worry himself to death.
> 
> Our two assassins will be reunited in the next chapter!
> 
> Here's your preview!
> 
> "Coulson will be here in two hours," he sighed wearily, suddenly seeming to completely drain of energy. She caught him before he could completely collapse and guided his head to her unwounded thigh. She carefully traced her fingers through his hair, swallowing back the worry that bubbled up at the heat he was giving off. She watched fine tremors race through his body and he squeezed his eyes shut as another pain rocked through his abdomen.
> 
> She winced as her thigh pulsed painfully. She shifted it and frowned as blood seeped out through her soaked make shift bandage.
> 
> Two hours.
> 
> She was suddenly terrified neither of them had that long.


	7. Just Stay Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer._

**_Albert Camus_ **

* * *

"Natasha, this would be so much easier, if you just answered my questions," Moreno advised as she rose from her chair and moved closer to her captive. Natasha just glared at her silently, looking unruffled by anything that had taken place over the last several hours. "I hate that you are forcing me to resort to such crude methods."

Moreno turned toward the men at the door of the cell and held out her hand to one. Immediately he rushed forward and handed her his side arm.

"Now, do I really need to ask again?"

Natasha watched Moreno aim the gun at her thigh. She flexed her hands, letting her eyes roam over bleeding cuts on her wrists from the handcuffs. Her dress had gotten torn away at the knees, leaving her lower legs bare and they were now covered in bruises, bumps and raw abrasions from a beating with a thick knotted rope. She stretched her jaw slightly, not letting the pain the movement caused show in her expression. She could feel the left side of her face was swollen and it felt hot and tender even when she was just sitting there. She could feel blood tracking its way down the opposite side of her face from a bleeding wound on her temple and her left eye was half swollen shut from a well placed fist.

She finally raised her eyes back to Moreno and merely arched a disinterested eyebrow. All in all, she'd had worse.

The woman's lips pursed and she fired.

Natasha flinched and couldn't hold back a gasp as the bullet ripped into the meat of her thigh, mercifully avoided the bone and exited through the back, burying itself in the floor of her cell. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to keep her eyes on Moreno's.

"You are truly a fascinating creature, Natasha," Moreno mused. She cocked her head. "You really aren't going to say anything, are you?"

If Clint were here, Natasha knew he'd be smarting off with something along the lines of 'you catch on quick, bitch'. Natasha settled for just thinking it.

Moreno backed away and moved for the cell door.

"Leave her." She looked back at Natasha, "If you change your mind at any time, my men will give you immediate medical treatment in exchange for the information I want. Otherwise, it's been a pleasure, Miss Romanoff."

Natasha watched until Moreno and all her little minions were out of sight, only then did she let out the breath she'd been holding and only then did she allow the pain to show in her expression. She tried to force deep breaths as she examined the wound with her eyes, at least what she could see of it. The bullet, considering the amount of blood pooling on the ground, hadn't hit any major arteries.

Small mercies.

But there was still a lot of blood and it was flowing steadily. She could still bleed to death if she didn't do something about it. It would just take a while.

She tested her restraints, her eyes searching the room for anything that could help her. She released a frustrated breath when nothing was immediately obvious.

"Okay, Natasha, you can think of something."

She sighed and took a deep breath, closing her eyes to center herself. Then she got an idea.

* * *

Moreno motioned to a tall, greasy haired man as she and her husband moved towards the door.

"Call me immediately if she talks. Otherwise, call me when she's dead. I'm leaving you with some of my best in case the mysterious Hawkeye decides to pay a visit."

She waved nearly a dozen men away from their position behind her. Obediently the small group of armed men moved away and intermingled with the two dozen paid off officers lounging around the room.

"How long until we just kill her?" the man asked as he walked her towards the door.

"She'll bleed out eventually. I wouldn't be concerned."

He nodded and Moreno walked swiftly out of the station, Eduardo trailing behind.

* * *

"You have a plan here, hot shot?" Barney asked as he crouched next to Clint on the rooftop of the building next to the police station almost an hour after his conversation with Phil. It had been slow going across the city, since he'd had to stop several times in the shadows of an alley to ride out waves of pain. He'd also been followed intermittently by various victims of the contracts he'd taken back in the day.

It was taking him longer each time to remember that they weren't real.

"I'm not talking to you anymore."

Clint chose not to acknowledge that  _that_  was talking to him. Chose not to acknowledge that Barney still seemed as real as he had before Coulson's pep talk.

"Why because your friend told you I wasn't real?" Barney scoffed. "I told you before, baby bro, I'm real to you, just not to anyone else."

Clint studiously ignored him, keeping his eyes pinned on the building next to his perch. He'd arrived only fifteen minutes ago, in time to watch a black car pull away from the curb in front of the police station. It was a statement to how muddled his thoughts were once again becoming that he hadn't paid much mind to the car or who it might be carrying away.

He heard a noise and shifted, watching the side door to the building open. A man stepped out and immediately lit up a cigarette. It's what Clint had been waiting for. That door had a heavy duty lock and his attempt to pick it had failed miserably because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"You gonna kill that guy?"

"No, Barney, I'm not going to kill him."

Clint wasn't sure why he wasn't going to kill him, maybe just to spite Barney, who seemed to take immense pleasure in reminding him that he was an assassin, who killed people for a living.

Of course, Barney wasn't really there, so it shouldn't have bothered him.

At the moment, in Clint's mind at least, that was neither here nor there.

As the man below him took a long drag on his cigarette, Clint made his way to the fire escape.

Under normal circumstances Clint was capable of making quick work of fire escapes. His ability to scramble down them like a monkey, Coulson's words not his, with no recognizable hitch in his balance, made them nothing but a momentary inconvenience for him.

Unfortunately, these were far from normal circumstances. Instead of climbing over the edge of the landings and dropping two stories at a time like he usually did, he had to stick to the ladders and the stairs. Even so he was forced to stop several times and just curl in on himself until the wave of debilitating pain passed. Then he would continue on his way, each time more slowly and more laboriously than before.

Finally he reached the ground and let the shadows of the alley swallow him up as he stealthily moved closer to the police station. He peeked carefully around the edge of the building and watched the man blow out a puff of smoke and then flick his spent cigarette to the ground, stepping on it with the toe of his boot.

Clint frowned. Had it really taken him that long to get down six stories?

"Either that guy smokes like a chimney, or it took you like six or seven minutes to get down six stories."

"Shut up, Barney," Clint grumbled.

He watched the man turn back to the door, pull it open and step back inside. That was when Clint moved. Just before the door closed, Clint managed to get his fingers around it.

* * *

"Hey!" Natasha yelled when she heard whoever had gone out the side door, two or three cells closer to the main area than where she was now, pull it open again. "Anyone? Hello!"

She heard someone snap something to whoever had just come back inside about going to shut her up and listened as footsteps approached her cell. She slumped into her chair, and fixed wide watery eyes on the cell door.

A man with red cheeks, a product of being outside in the cold, stepped into sight and glared at her.

"Quiet," he growled.

"Please," she whispered weakly. "I just need some water. I'm not asking you to let me go, I'm just so thirsty, please," she pleaded, blinking and letting a manufactured tear roll down her cheek. The man frowned.

"They will not allow it," he informed her with a quirk to his lips that  _almost_  looked apologetic.

She looked him up and down quickly.

"What's that?" she asked, flicking her eyes down to a flask on his hip.

"Not water," he grumbled.

"Can I have a sip?" She let another tear fall, "I'm so thirsty, please!"

He twisted his mouth in indecision and looked back down the hallway.

"Please!" she pleaded.

"Just be quiet," he snapped, shaking his head again and reaching for the keys on his belt. He pushed his way into the cell and made his way carefully to her side, pulling his flask off his hip. He carefully held it to her lips and let her drink for a moment.

Natasha smiled and shook her hair out of her face.

"Do you think you check the bullet wound, maybe apply just a little bit of pressure?"

She just needed to get him a little closer.

"She told us to leave you," the man denied.

Natasha opened her mouth to convince him when movement behind her visitor caught her eye. She smirked suddenly and he frowned at her. Natasha's weak and terrified expression disappeared in the time it took him to shift his expression. His eyes widened at her new, stone cold and deadly glare, taking a step backwards.

A blade suddenly flashed over the man's shoulders and tore across his throat. In the next moment Clint was visible, lowering the body silently to the ground.

"Well I didn't kill him out there, did I?" Clint snapped in a harsh whisper over his shoulder. Natasha frowned, leaning to see if there was someone there.

There wasn't.

"Clint?"

"Shut up or they'll hear you."

Natasha's frown deepened. Clint wasn't talking to her. Wasn't even looking at her. Was retrieving the keys off the dead officer and talking to someone over his shoulder. Someone that was apparently invisible.

He was suddenly focused on her and moving in her direction as if the imaginary conversation hadn't happened.

"Tasha, Jesus…"

His hand came to brush feather light against her swollen jaw, she couldn't hide her wince. It took longer than it should have for Clint to put it together, she worried at the slow processing time as he stared at her, his brow furrowed as he took in the state of her jaw.

"What a pair we make, huh?" he finally sighed with a weak grin.

She had to smile a little at that as he started freeing her ankles and wrists.

What a pair indeed.

She watched him closely as he worked at the handcuffs, his hands fumbling uncharacteristically. His normally healthily tanned skin was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the icy temperatures outside. He was wearing sunglasses, even though the light inside was minimal.

She flinched when his scar roughened hands ghosted across her abused shins.

"Jesus…" he whispered again, his tone a mixture of horror and absolute anger, "I'll kill the bitch."

He started to rise, maybe to attempt to do just that, but Natasha reached out with a newly freed hand to pull him back down. Not only was Moreno not here anymore, had been gone for over twenty minutes now, but if Clint just waltzed up to the front of this place he'd get turned to Swiss cheese in a second. She'd heard Moreno barking orders about leaving men here. There were probably at least two dozen men waiting at the front for her to die.

"I'll be okay," she assured, concerned about his recklessness and that he hadn't noticed the bullet wound yet. Clint noticed everything. "I need you to help me bandage this so I can try and stop the bleeding."

He stared at her for a moment. Then he looked down at her thigh. And finally he spurred into movement, shrugging out of his jacket and pulling off his long sleeved black shirt, leaving him in his Under Armour. He helped her tie it tightly around her bullet wound. It wouldn't have to do for now, until they could get a real pressure bandage.

She watched him quickly pull his jacket back on, shivering even though she could see sweat beaded on his skin.

She froze when Clint suddenly went rigid, turning to look at the emptiness of the cell to his left.

"Clint?"

He surged backwards suddenly, scrambling back in a crab walk until his back slammed hard against the concrete wall that had been to his right.

"No," he pleaded abruptly in a horrified whisper. "Barney, don't!"

Natasha's eyes widened when his hands suddenly grasped at a spot on his upper right chest. A spot she knew was home to an old knife scar. It took her barely a moment to put it together. She quickly levered herself out of her chair and moved towards him, her leg nearly going out from under her in her haste.

"Clint!" she hissed in a whisper. "He's not real! He's not here," she insisted in a harsh whisper. She caught his jaw in one hand and pulled off the sunglasses with the other, forcing his wildly dilated eyes to meet hers. "He's not real, Clint!  _I'm_  real! Look at me!" she pleaded when his eyes shifted away, looking at something over her shoulder.

"Barney…"

She could only describe his tone as the look in his eyes when he had dreamed of his brother put into sound. It was heart wrenching and tortured, full of pain and despair. She hated it immediately and never wanted to hear it again.

"Clint!" she hissed again, casting a glance towards the hall outside her cell. She didn't hear anyone coming to investigate yet. She looked back at Clint, felt the heat of a fever beneath her hands, saw the wild confusion in his eyes.

She didn't the only thing she could think of to get him back to reality.

She kissed him.

He froze and she pulled back. He was watching her and she could tell by the terrified confusion in his eyes that he was back with her.

* * *

Clint had managed to forget about Barney when he saw Natasha. He'd managed to forget about everything else as he took in the damage done to her. He lightly brushed his fingers against her swollen jaw. It took him several moments to pull the pieces together, his mind moving more sluggishly than normal.

He should have been concerned when he didn't notice how long that took. But he wasn't.

"What a pair we make, huh?" he sighed.

She smiled slightly, watching him closely as he got to work on the handcuffs holding her captive. Fine tremors shook his hands, making him fumble with the keys he'd taken off the officer. Making it take longer than it should have to free her.

His eyes focused on the harsh bruises and abrasions on her legs.

"Jesus…" he gasped feeling a wave of anger wash over him as the horror of her abuse sunk in. "I'll kill the bitch," he hissed. He started to rise, maybe to seek Moreno out right now. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything but the fact that Natasha was hurt. That Moreno had hurt her.

"I'll be okay," she insisted, pulling him back down. "I need you to help me bandage this so I can try and stop the bleeding."

He stared at her for a long moment, wondering what she was talking about. Then he registered the blood pooled on the floor and tracked it to her thigh. It took another moment before he reached to pull of his jacket and then his black shirt. He helped her tie the makeshift bandage around the bullet wound. The bitch had  _shot_  her and left her to bleed to death.

"We offered to cut you in, Clint, but you just  _had_ to be a little bitch about it."

Clint froze, turning his head slowly to look at Barney, who was leaning against the cell wall to his left.

"Clint?" he heard Natasha's voice, but it didn't quite register as he stared at the knife in his brother's hand.

"Why'd you have to make me do this, Clint?" Barney stepped towards him. "Why couldn't you just keep your mouth shut and join us?" He lunged forward and Clint scrambled backwards, only stopping when his back cracked painfully into the wall. Barney pursued him.

"No," he pleaded, "Barney, don't!"

But Barney ignored his pleas and brought the knife down into his Clint's chest. Clint gasped and moved his hands to the knife, feeling the pain of the blade and the warm blood suddenly running a river down his chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Clint!" Natasha was suddenly in front of him. "He's not real! He's not here," she insisted. Her hand locked around his jaw and his sunglasses were ripped away. Pain sliced through his head. She forced his eyes to meet hers. He saw Barney shift closer and moved his eyes to watch him. "He's not real, Clint!  _I'm_ real! Look at me!"

"I'm sorry, Baby Bro. But I've got to look out for myself now…"

"Barney…" he begged brokenly, he wasn't sure what he was begging for. His brother not to leave him here to die. His brother not to have betrayed him. But Barney was just staring at him. He didn't hear Natasha call his name again.

He wasn't aware of anything but pain, spreading from the knife wound on his chest across and down to his abdomen, locking up every muscle.

Then suddenly there were lips on his and everything faded away, even Barney, even the pain.

He blinked and Natasha was there. Face bruised and bloody, jaw swollen and discolored. His beautiful fiery spider was there, pulling him back to reality.

"Natasha." He whispered her name like a prayer. Hoping she could do something,  _anything_  to help him. To keep him from coming apart. He couldn't separate it anymore. He couldn't even force himself not to react to Barney. Couldn't find the presence of mind to remember he wasn't real. He was losing his grip on reality. He could feel it happening and he couldn't stop it.

"I'm right here," she promised, shifting one of her hands subtly to press her fingers into the pulse point on his neck. His pulse was easy to find, it was pumping too hard and way too fast.

He hesitated as he stared at her.

"You're real, right?" He had to ask. He needed the assurance. Because Barney had felt just as real for the past seven hours.

Natasha didn't know what to say for a moment, the question was so unexpected. She could see the pain in his eyes, the confusion and the fear. He honestly wasn't sure and it broke her heart a little.

"Yes, мой сокол, I'm real," she assured. "We need to go."  _(my hawk)_

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet, letting her lean on him to take weight off her wounded leg. They'd made it to the cell door when the spasm hit. Cramping pain tore through his abdomen like a blade and he gasped, falling to his knees. Natasha nearly fell with him, but kept her balance with by a grip on the cell bars.

"Clint?" she gripped his shoulder in concern. He tried to stand, she watched his trembling hand wrap around the bars in a white knuckled grip. Bless his stubborn heart, he  _tried._  But she could see it in his posture the moment the muscles in his back suddenly locked up. He lost his grip on the bars, curling in on himself with a groan.

Natasha thought quickly, she limped to the dead guard and yanked his gun out of its holster and made her way back to the door. She peeked out of the cell just as a man came around the corner from the main room, no doubt in search of their wayward officer. She had hoped she would have the element of surprise. Luck, it seemed, had continued to elude her.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

She fired twice. Both bullets ripped into his chest and he fell. Natasha scrambled back into the cell as three more men came around the corner, guns already up. She watched the bullets crack into the concrete wall beyond her cell. She grabbed Clint's bicep, dragging him to the right side of the cell, where he'd be protected from any gun fire.

He seemed to be coming out of whatever had happened to him, because he uncurled and braced himself on his hands and knees. He heard the footsteps approaching the cell the same as Natasha did. He pulled his own side arm as he forced himself to straighten.

"Okay?" she breathed.

"For now," he assured. "On three."

She nodded.

"One, two, three."

They both moved and leaned out the open cell door, Clint took the floor and Natasha gripped the bars with one hand to stay on her feet. Clint killed two men with four bullets. Natasha killed two more with three. Half a dozen more men came around the corner. Natasha fired once and then her gun clicked empty.

"Seriously?" she scowled, ducking back into the cell. What kind of police officer didn't keep his gun fully loaded?

She watched Clint fire off the rest of his rounds to take down the six men. Then he cursed and crawled back towards her.

"How bad is your vision?" she demanded. Because there was no way he was seeing normally if it took more than six shots to kill six men.

"It's just blurry."

The way he was pressing his palms against his eyes, suggested he was dealing with more than just blurry vision.

"Clint, how bad is it?" she asked quietly.

He uncovered his eyes and squinted at her, the meager light of the cell too much.

"It's bad."

That he admitted it scared Natasha more than anything else. Clint was tough. Clint could always "take it". But now Clint was shaking, having to fire more than once to kill someone, and seeing things that weren't there. She watched his head turn suddenly to look at something to his left.

Clint frowned at the sudden appearance of Marcus McGuire, a man he'd been contracted to kill seven years ago. Marcus moved towards him, raving angrily at Clint for murdering him. Clint couldn't take his eyes off the arrow protruding from the man's heart.

Natasha looked to where he had suddenly focused his attention.

There was nothing there.

Before she could tell him that, she heard footsteps approaching. She stood, careful to keep her weight on her good leg, and waited. When the first one came into view, she reached through the bars, grabbed his gun and used his moment of shock to slam it back into his nose. Then she stripped it from his hand and fired into his chest. She pulled the gun back through the bars, firing as she moved and once she was through the cell door, she attacked.

She kept it simple.

She snapped the first man's neck with her hands and a sharp twist. As he fell, she used him as a platform to launch herself at the next man. She wrapped her legs around his neck and twisted her body towards the ground. She nearly cried out at the fiery pain that ripped through her thigh, but the man's neck broke and she forced herself to stay focused. From her position on the ground, she slammed her elbow into the side of a man's knee, forcing it inwards. She used a fistful of his uniform to pull herself up and then snapped his neck with her hands. A hand landed on her shoulder. She grabbed it and spun, twisting the limb and hearing bones crack. The man had turned with her movement, but it wasn't enough. She twisted his arm out of socket and ran him into the bars face first. He fell with a thud.

She turned at the sound of a gun cocking.

A man had slipped past her, was standing just ahead of the cell door, pointing a gun at her.

Then suddenly Clint was there, pulled back to reality by some sixth sense that told him his spider was in danger.

He grabbed the man's gun hand. He twisted up and backwards, forcing the man's elbow to point straight up even as Clint stripped the gun from his hand. Then Clint's other elbow was snapping into the man's cheek, quickly followed by a sharp knee to his solar plexus. The man stumbled back and Clint fired the gun, upside down, using his pinky on the trigger.

Natasha was already moving. She gathered every gun she could find and pushed Clint back into the cell, just in time to avoid the barrage of gunfire at their backs. They flattened themselves against the wall and waited for it to stop.

When it finally did, silence reigned for a moment.

"We have many men. Surrender now or we will be forced to attack."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. That sounded like one of Moreno's lieutenants that had taken joyful part in her interrogation.

"Well we have a lot of guns. So if you wanna give it a shot," she paused, let them get a look at the pile of bodies outside the cell, "go for it."

She heard them talking fiercely amongst themselves the forefront of the conversation being 'when had she become we', but her attention was diverted when Clint suddenly gasped and slid down the wall into a hunched ball. She fought the urge to tend to him immediately and quickly tuned back in to the conversation down the hall. She heard Moreno's lieutenant's voice demand for someone to get Moreno on the phone.

Satisfied that they had a few minutes at least, she turned to Clint and lowered herself onto the ground beside him.

"Clint? We're in the clear for a few minutes," she informed him. He nodded jerkily, hands pressed into his eyes. "Have you been able to call in?"

He nodded again.

Hope soared through her.

"What time is it?" he asked shakily.

She twisted the watch on his wrist so she could see it.

"Almost ten."

"Two hours."

"What?"

"Coulson will be here in two hours," he sighed wearily, suddenly seeming to completely drain of energy. She caught him before he could completely collapse and guided his head to her unwounded thigh. She carefully traced her fingers through his hair, swallowing back the worry that bubbled up at the heat he was giving off. She watched fine tremors race through his body and he squeezed his eyes shut as another pain rocked through his abdomen.

She winced as her thigh pulled painfully. She shifted it and frowned as blood seeped out through her soaked make shift bandage.

Two hours.

She was suddenly terrified neither of them had that long.

* * *

"How much longer?" Phil snapped as he hovered over the pilot's shoulder.

"Less than two hours till we touch down."

Phil paced away to the back of the jet, scrubbing a hand down his face.

They were running out of time. He could feel it.

"We'll find them, Phil," Todd assured quietly.

Coulson couldn't bring himself to accept the attempt at comfort. Not when it had been an hour since he'd last talked to Clint. Not when he didn't know what state Natasha would be in when they found her or if she was even still alive. Not when he didn't know if Clint would even survive whatever he'd been injected with. Not when he stood to lose the single most important person in his life and also someone who was rapidly becoming the second most important person in his life.

He couldn't think about anything but them. Clint and Natasha.

"I want everyone geared up and ready to move as soon as our wheels hit the tarmac."

"Yes sir!" the men chorused.

He continued pacing.

He was going to be in time. He had to be in time. He wouldn't lose them, not after everything they'd all gone through to get to this point.

He  _had_  to be in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 7
> 
> Yikes! Will Phil be in time?! WILL HE?! You'll find out next chapter! :D
> 
> Preview:
> 
> "Your leg."
> 
> He said it like he had only just thought of it.
> 
> She frowned. Had he forgotten that she'd been shot? That he'd helped her bandage the wound. He was suddenly rolling to his hands and knees, shifting to lean over her and inspect the sluggishly bleeding wound.
> 
> "What happened?"
> 
> Her frown deepened.
> 
> "I got shot."
> 
> But he was already supposed to know that.


	8. You Know I'm Here For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy!

_When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on._

**_Franklin Delanor Rooselvelt_ **

* * *

Alex Moreno flipped her ringing phone open, ignoring her husband's curious glance.

"Moreno."

_"We have a situation."_

She scowled darkly.

"What  _kind_ of situation," she demanded sharply, her tone cold.

_"Someone else is back there with her. We don't know how he got in, but he freed her."_

"Hawkeye," she hissed angrily. How she wished she'd been able to spot him at the party as she'd spotted the Widow. "Are they still there?"

_"Yes, but..."_

Moreno waited a beat after he trailed off.

"But  _what_? Handle it!" she ordered.

_"We tried, señora, but they have killed several already."_

"Carlos, they are only two, you have two dozen. I will call again when I am driving to the airport in just two hours. I said for you to handle it. Either do so, or do not bother to return to Spain."

She snapped her phone closed on his reply.

* * *

Natasha tightened Clint's shirt around her leg, wincing and leaning her head back against the concrete wall. Clint didn't move from where he was curled in an almost fetal position facing the wall. His head was pillowed on her thigh and his forehead pressed into the curve of her hip with his eyes clenched closed. The muscle spasms had increased in frequency in the hour since the stalemate had begun. He was suffering from them more than he wasn't now. He'd stopped groaning and gasping, instead just silently flinching and tensing as they hit.

In Natasha's opinion...that was worse.

She lightly traced her fingers through the hair above his ear and tensed when she heard feet at the other end of the hall. It was a few different people, coming closer. If she wasn't trained to hear what most people couldn't, she wouldn't have heard them coming. She reached for the gun she'd rested on the ground while she'd tightened her 'bandage', and wrapped her hand tightly around it, her eyes pinned on the bars of the cell, waiting.

The first one came into sight and she fired. As soon as he dropped she fired at the next. She continued in this fashion until she heard footsteps retreating.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," she taunted, wondering if she was channeling Clint's attitude. She didn't usually toss taunts around, but this was the second attempt they'd made in the last hour since she'd heard one of them on the phone with Moreno.

Her eyes fell to Clint when he shifted restlessly.

"Shut up!" he snapped suddenly, one of his hands going to his ear as if to cover it before lowering again to wrap around his abdomen. He flinched suddenly, jerking away as if someone had tried to grab him. "Don't touch me!" he snarled over his shoulder at somebody only he could see.

Natasha closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath to calm herself as he curled more firmly into her hip. It was getting harder to watch him like this. He had no idea what was real and what wasn't. He'd asked her half a dozen times if she was really there, each time not seeming to realize he'd already asked. She could feel the heat of his fever through the fabric of her dress at her hip.

Maybe it comforted him if he couldn't see whoever was bothering him. It was the only reason she could think he would lay like this, his back completely exposed to the room. Either that or whoever he was seeing was someone he couldn't bring himself to face. Judging by what he'd been muttering, Barney hadn't left him alone and he kept apologizing, whispering random names at random times.

"Clint," she called gently, dragging her fingers through his hair to get his attention. It hurt to talk, made her whole mouth hurt. But when he tensed and then leaned his head back into her hand, she went on. "Are you with me?"

He hesitated for a long moment and then nodded slightly.

"There's something I've always wanted to ask you, something that I haven't had the courage to ask you until now."

He uncurled a little, listening.

"Why did you save me?"

And just like that the question was out there. Something she'd wondered about for the past three and a half years. What about her had made him defy orders, defy  _Coulson_ , and save her when he should have killed her.

"What did you see?"

Because Clint always saw everything, even when people didn't want him to.

For the first time in almost an hour Clint was able to focus on something other than the voices taunting him. Barney's voice led the charge, followed by a few of those that he'd killed while working contracts. He was able to focus on something other than the sharp, violent, pulsing pain in his head. Something other than the agonizing, ripping pain tearing through his abdomen and the rolling waves of cramping muscles over the rest of his body.

He focused on the question and found the answer came more easily than any thought had in the past several hours. He shifted onto his back and opened his eyes to squint up at her.

Then he smiled.

"I see things no one else sees," he told her quietly. "And that night, I saw  _you_."

Natasha basked for a moment in the smile. It was signature Clint, even if he was paler than she'd ever seen him and squinting so much she could barely see his eyes at all. But the smile was the most normal he'd looked since he'd appeared in the prison.

"What do you mean?" she asked, tracking her fingers through his hair gently.

He shifted again, tightening his arms around his torso, but it was almost an unconscious gesture, because he was focused fully on her.

"I was ready to do it. I was ready to send an arrow right through your heart, but then I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew you weren't who they thought you were."

She frowned. She'd been a contract killer,  _exactly_  who they thought she was.

He smiled slightly at her confusion.

"You think I didn't see it?" he asked, "How scared you were?"

She almost denied it.

But then she didn't. Because she  _had_  been afraid. She had looked down the length of the arrow he'd had pointed at her heart and she'd been afraid. Not of him. Not of the people he said were coming for her. Not even of dying. Afraid that this was all there was for her. A short life filled with blood that ended before it could really begin. Afraid that after everything she'd been through, after finally finding the courage to break away from the Program, she was going to die no better than who she'd been when she had been with them.

Clint had given her a chance to change all of that. To live a life that meant something. He had saved her, had managed to see patches of light in her darkened soul and he'd believed she could be better, before she even believed it herself.

"How could you see what I barely even knew myself?"

"Because I've always been able to see you, Natasha,  _all_ of you. Even when you didn't want me to."

And he had, she acknowledged inwardly, stroking his warm, too dry cheek gently.

"You're the only one that ever saw me, Clint."

He closed his eyes, sighing at the feeling of her hand tenderly on his skin. Her hand felt so cold on his fever ravaged body. A slight memory filtered into his consciousness, a memory of taking off his shirt and tying it around her leg.

He opened his eyes.

"Clint?" she asked in concern, afraid he was seeing or hearing something again.

"Your leg."

He said it like he had only just thought of it.

She frowned. Had he forgotten that she'd been shot? That he'd helped her bandage the wound. He was suddenly rolling to his hands and knees, shifting to lean over her and inspect the sluggishly bleeding wound.

"What happened?"

Her frown deepened.

"I got shot."

But he was already supposed to know that.

"It's still bleeding?" he frowned.

"Not as much as it was."

He reached to feel the skin of her cheek suddenly.

"You're cold."

"You're hot," she countered.

"How long has it been bleeding, Nat?"

She hesitated and then looked away.

"God damn it," he hissed. "Why didn't you say something?"

"You  _knew_  about it already," she frowned.

He scowled, adjusting the bandage and applying pressure with his hands. She grimaced, but didn't push him away. He didn't remember learning about the wound. He remembered a brief moment of helping her treat it, but that was it. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't recall ever seeing it before.

He glanced up at her. She was watching him with a deep furrow in her brow.

"She thinks you're going crazy."

Clint refused to look at Barney, who had just crouched next to him.

"No she doesn't."

Natasha frowned.

"Clint?"

"She thinks you're too weak to protect her. I mean, you weren't here to stop her from getting shot were you? Or from getting her tooth ripped out? Or from getting her legs beaten."

"Stop it," Clint snapped, curling over a little when pain cut through him.

"What? It's true. You're weak, Clint. You always have been."

"I'm not weak."

"Oh yeah? Is that why you cried like a baby after Jacobs would beat the shit out of you? Is that why you ran away to hide in the barn at night? Because you were  _strong?_ "

"I was safe there. He couldn't get to me. No one could climb up there but me."

"Clint, listen to me, focus on my voice," Natasha instructed.

Clint didn't hear her.

"You were a coward."

"I was a seven year old kid who found a way to protect himself when no one else would. I found a way to be strong when everything and everybody around me was saying I was weak. Even you."

Barney scowled.

"Only babies cry right? I haven't cried since the first night I slept up there. I'm not weak, Barney, not anymore."

"CLINT!"

Clint's focus was suddenly ripped away from Barney when he was yanked forward by his shirt and kissed full on the mouth. Natasha's cold hands on his face pushed him back after a moment and she forced him to meet her eyes.

"He's not real, Clint.  _I'm_  real and I need you to stay with me. I  _need_  you to keep it together."

Clint blinked and shifted his eyes to glance at Barney. Natasha forcefully turned his face so he couldn't look in that direction.

"Tell me about Coulson. Tell me about how you to became what you are."

"What?"

"Focus on what's real. Nothing is more real than the brotherhood you two have. Tell me about it. Tell me about the beginning."

Clint blinked again. She was right. When they'd been talking about the night they met, he hadn't seen or heard anything that wasn't there. He needed to focus on what he knew was real.

"I thought I knew what patience was, being a sniper. Then I met Phil and realized,  _eventually_ , that I didn't have a fucking clue."

He moved to lean against the wall next to her, the surge of adrenaline that had hit him at remembering her injury fading more quickly than it had come.

"You should have seen him, Tasha," Clint smiled wistfully. "He pulled me back from a ledge I didn't even  _care_  I was standing on."

He told her about their four am training sessions, about Coulson kicking his ass to teach him a lesson on patience. He told her about the Gatorades and the candy and the fire escapes, roof access, and arm guards. He told her about the moment he realized Coulson didn't want anything from him, that he just _cared_. That he just wanted Clint to be the best version of himself.

To do his best to do his best, every second of every day.

He told her about the training missions. About how ashamed he still was over the final training mission and the choice he'd made. He told her about the Andes and about Coulson saving his life. He told her about Venice four months later, when Clint celebrated his birthday for the first time in years.

By the time he trailed off, Clint was curled on the ground again, arms wrapped around his stomach, head pressed into her good thigh, and voice tight with pain. Natasha sat silently, running her fingers through his hair in a continuous, soothing fashion. Her head was leaned back and her eyes partially closed as she listened.

She wasn't surprise it had been a rollercoaster of a process for Clint and Coulson to get where they were now. Wasn't surprised at all that Clint had been so slow to trust the man. Wasn't surprised that Clint had been even more of a handful then than he was now. She was so focused on her thoughts and the increasingly pleasant pull of unconsciousness on her exhausted body and mind that she almost didn't notice when he spoke.

"Why did you choose me, Natasha?"

She blinked, pulling her head forward to look down at him. His eyes were still closed and he hadn't moved. She thought she might know what he meant, but she asked anyway.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

Even when he wasn't looking at her he could still see right through her.

"Because you see me, Clint," she told him quietly. "You see through all the bullshit, you always have. From the very beginning, I couldn't manipulate, I couldn't trick you. I couldn't scare you or intimidate you. You looked at me and you saw  _me_  instead of the Black Widow. No one else ever saw  _me,_ " she paused and smiled gently. "Mostly, мой сокол, because we're both so disastrously broken and somehow we make each other whole again.  _You_  make me whole. There was a time when I didn't even think that was possible."

"To be whole?"

"Yeah," she confirmed quietly.

"I know what you mean."

She nodded, because she knew he did.

"I  _need_  you, Clint, okay? So just stay with me."

"I'll always stay with you, Natasha."

She smiled at the promise and brushed her fingers through his hair and resting her head back again. Maybe she could just sleep for a few minutes.

Clint squinted up at her when the fingers in his hair slowed to a stop. He saw her eyes closed, remembered the coldness of her skin and the blood staining the floor, and realized he had to keep her grounded just as much as she'd needed to do it for him.

"Tell me about before," he demanded suddenly.

"Before what?" she asked quietly, pulling her head forward tiredly and tuning her ears to a sudden conversation down the hall. She caught bits and pieces about Moreno being angry, her wanting them to handle it, and threats of what would happen if they didn't.

Natasha assumed 'it' was her and Clint.

"Before me."

Natasha glanced at him, tightening her hold on her gun, and straining to hear more of the conversation down the hall. She heard someone mention that Moreno was leaving the city in an hour and was going to call back before then and they had better have results.

She felt a shot of energy. Moreno was still in the city. She grabbed Clint's wrist, shifting it so she could see the time. Clint had said two hours just over an hour ago. Her mind raced with possible scenarios.

It was only after a moment that she realized he hadn't reacted to her shifting his wrist. Hadn't prodded her to answer his question.

"Clint?"

She shifted, pushing herself away from the wall. She fell back with against it roughly when her vision grayed. She pressed her hand against the bullet wound, forgetting for a moment that she had a gun clutched in it. When her vision cleared and the feeling that she was going to pass out faded, she looked down at Clint again.

He hadn't moved.

"Clint?" she called in concern, pulling him onto his back. "Wake up," she ordered sharply, tapping his cheek. "Clint! Open your eyes!" she tapped harder.

He groaned.

"Open your eyes, Barton!"

He groaned something that sounded like an attempt at words. She dropped the gun on her lap and slid both her hands under his shoulders, pushing him up into a sitting position. She shifted him so he was leaning back against the wall.

He was blinking sluggishly, his chin hanging listlessly to his chest.

"You need to stay awake," she commanded.

Clint rolled his head back to lean against the wall, but let his eyes fall closed again.

"Clint! Open your eyes."

He forced his eyes open.

"You asked me about before. I'll tell you, but you have to stay awake, okay?"

He nodded slightly and she took that as agreement. She blew out a deep breath and shifted so their shoulders were touching, partly for her own comfort and partly to keep him upright. She took another breath before she started, knowing every word would hurt her aching jaw. She carefully pressed her hand against her bullet wound, hoping to stave off some of the sluggish blood flow.

"I was in an orphanage, like you, I was there for nine years and I think that was the only time in my life that there was no violence, no pain, no fear. I was just a little kid. A little kid who was really good at lying and convincing people of my point of view," she thought she saw him smile at that. "I was nine when the Black Widow Program recruited me into asset training."

"The Red Room Academy," Clint remembered her mentioning it in Vietnam.

She nodded.

"They believed fear was a great motivator, second only to pain. I learned eventually that they couldn't use fear against you if you weren't afraid of anything and that they couldn't use pain if you didn't let yourself feel. There was one instructor, Ilya Glazov, who was particularly cruel. I hated her in the beginning," Natasha didn't realize her voice had taken on a far off quality, as her mind traveled back into the memories. "If I had been letting myself feel anything by the end, I would have still hated her. But I'd learned not to feel anything."

She shook her head, wondering what had happened if Clint had never been sent to kill her. If she'd never been faced with the prospect of her life being cut short by one of his arrows. She wondered if she would have ever let herself feel again.

"Anyway, I've told you before, I was the _best_. I was sent on my first mission when I was fourteen. I don't even remember his name," she mused quietly. "But I killed him without a thought. I was punished when I returned because I hadn't killed his wife too, even though she was in the other room and hadn't seen me. I never made that mistake again, but not because of the punishment, not because I was scared of them. But because I wanted to be the  _best_."

She absently pressed her hand against her thigh, feeling the wetness of the t-shirt bandage beneath her fingers, her gun forgotten in her lap.

"They did everything they could to control everything about us. I don't remember a time with them that they weren't using various brainwashing techniques on us. I still don't know how I managed to hold onto myself in the beginning, because it wasn't until I was thirteen that I figured out how to fool them." She frowned as she remembered those years full of pain, full of fear. She couldn't bring herself to really talk about them, even now. "I could lie before they took me. They taught me to lie even better. They never expected me to use it against them." Her smirk was back now. "For  _years_  I did what they wanted and pretended they had me under their spell. Then when just before I turned nineteen I decided I'd had enough of being controlled. I ran. You found me nine months later and you know the rest."

She glanced at him for a response and froze.

His head had dropped forward so his chin was resting on his chest and his eyes were closed.

"Clint?"

He didn't even twitch.

"Clint!" she snapped, forgetting her leg and shifting quickly to her knees in front of him. She scooped his jaw up in her hands, feeling the sharp contrast between her skin and his. Icy and clammy versus hot and dry. She pushed her forefinger and index against his pulse point and her own heart nearly stopped when she almost didn't find it.

His heart had been racing when he'd found her. Pumping too hard and too fast. Now it had almost stalled out. The pulse was there, but it was weak and thready.

"Clint, wake up! Please, wake up," she pleaded.

Her hand shot for her gun when she heard gunfire at the front of the police station. She carefully lowered Clint to his back on the ground, grabbed another gun and pushed her way to her feet with a groan. She almost went right back down, but instead used the wall to keep her upright until she felt like she could balance on her good leg without passing out. She positioned herself in front of Clint, raised both guns and waited for whatever was coming.

* * *

"Alright, boys, we move hard and fast. As far as we know, Romanoff and Barton are inside. We don't know how many men we'll be facing or what status we'll find our agents in, but we take no prisoners. Understood?"

He got a series of curt nods in response.

"Todd, John, Mark, and Dan on me. Kyle and Jack you cover that side door and make sure no one gets out. Everybody clear?"

Another series of nods. Coulson nodded back.

"Let's move."

Phil led the way silently across the street between them and the police station. He motioned four men with him to split to either side of the front door and prepare for entry. He pointed at John and then at the door. The large man nodded and stepped to face the door. He braced himself and then slammed his boot into the door.

Coulson led the way in with his gun up. He was surprised to see a crowd of sixteen men huddled up watching the hallway that he assumed led to the cells. They all looked pensive and indecisive. And the wide-eyed shock on their faces when they turned to see a swarm of men clad in combat gear rushing towards them with raised guns, almost gave Phil pause.

The whole battle took less than thirty seconds. And then Coulson was stepping over bodies, leaving the team to deal with the aftermath, and moving quickly down the hall. He passed the two men he'd sent in the side door; both fell into step behind him as he moved.

For some reason, Phil wasn't surprised by the slew of bodies piled in front of the furthest cell. He slowed as he grew closer to it.

"Clint? Natasha?" he called, before he ventured out into possible line of fire.

"Coulson?"

_Natasha._

He stepped forward immediately, seeing Natasha immediately. She was standing, unsteadily, in front of Clint, who wasn't moving.

Natasha nearly wilted in relief right there.

Coulson was at the door in two strides. Helping Natasha sit in three more and leaning over Clint after one final half step.

"Clint?" Coulson called sharply, framing his agent's face in his hands and giving him a slight shake. "How long?" he asked Natasha.

She responded immediately from where one of the men that had followed him was replacing her t-shirt bandage with a real field bandage. She wasn't even paying attention to the man. Her eyes were focused on Clint's lax features.

"A few minutes, but he's been fading fast for the past hour."

"Dan!" Coulson called over his shoulder. Their field medic suddenly appeared, hurrying over the bodies in the hallway and going to his knees next to Clint.

"Barton!" Dan snapped. There was no response. "You said he was injected with something?" Dan asked as he started checking Clint's breathing and heart rate.

"We don't know what," Coulson replied, watching him closely.

"Barton?" Dan tried again, rubbing his knuckles across Clint's sternum. There was no noticeable response. "Alright, let's get him out of here." Dan motioned for the Todd, who had followed him into the cell, and to Kyle and Jack and between the four of them they lifted Clint and carried him towards the door.

Coulson was at Natasha's side in the same breath.

He reached to take her pulse without asking and his features ticked in distress when he took in the state of her jaw.

"You two are done with molar implants."

She couldn't help her small smile in response.

Coulson analyzed her pulse quickly. It was weaker than normal and thready. Her skin was cool and clammy and she was dangerously pale.

"Dizziness? Light-headedness?"

"A little."

"I don't know how the hell you aren't in full blown shock yet," Coulson commented as he took in the blood spread out across the concrete floor, both where she'd obviously been sitting and below the chair in the middle of the room.

"You think Clint's the only one that can be stubborn?"

She accepted his help to shakily stand.

"Oh it's definitely one of your commonalities."

Together they made slow progress towards the door and he helped her step carefully around the bodies. It wasn't until they were closed into the front row of back of one of their two large SUVs, listening to Dan work to stabilize Clint where he had him laid out across the large open area in the back, the other row of seats pushed down flat to give him more room, that Natasha brought up Moreno.

Phil had handed her a small cup of water and with a packet of salt mixed into it, instructed her to  _carefully_  swish it around and then spit it back into the cup, and then gotten to work carefully cleaning her bullet wound and more effectively bandaging it.

"How's he doing, Dan?" Todd asked from where he was driving.

"Don't ask me that, right now?" Dan replied sharply, his sharp controlled movements never faltering as he got an IV in place and fitted an oxygen mask of Clint's face.

Natasha forced herself to stay focused, to not be distracted by worry for her partner.

"Moreno is still in the city. I heard them talking about her leaving on a flight soon. Does she have any planes registered under her name?" Natasha asked, fighting back a wave of exhaustion.

"She does. Mark, find Moreno's plane," Phil instructed the man riding shotgun. He immediately pulled out a cell phone and started dialing.

"She's mine," Natasha demanded.

Phil arched an eyebrow at her, glancing meaningfully at her leg.

"She's mine," she stated even more firmly.

Coulson nodded. There were only a handful of people in the world that he wouldn't want coming for his blood. Fury was one, the man wasn't the Director of SHIELD for nothing. Clint was another, his agent was a finely tuned killer when he wanted to be, usually  _more_  effective when emotions like hate came into play. Natasha was a third, because she had been named the Black Widow as a teenager and had since become the most notorious contract killer in the world and then a loyal SHIELD agent.

Moreno wouldn't survive the day. He was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 8
> 
> Get the bitch, Nat! For all of you that remember Clint going on sometimes when he shouldn't have been able to. That's Natasha this story. By all rights she should be in shock and unconscious. Instead, she's gearing up to take down Moreno. Next chapter is the conclusion!
> 
> Here's your final preview
> 
> "How did you find out about me?" she hissed angrily.
> 
> Moreno glared. Natasha twisted the hair in her hand tighter and slammed the heel of her hand into the woman's ribs. She felt one break and Moreno cried out.
> 
> "How did you find out about me?" Natasha demanded.
> 
> "I was warned that you would be coming," Moreno gasped.
> 
> Natasha smirked. For all her power and authority, Moreno was just as weak as Natasha expected.


	9. I Will Fight And Defend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Enjoy the final chapter!
> 
> Song the chapter titles are from is "Keep Holding On" by Avril Lavigne 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_If you are going through hell, keep going._

**_Winston Churchill_ **

* * *

When they pulled to a stop next to the SHIELD jet, Natasha watched Coulson hesitate, torn between helping her out of the SUV and moving to help transfer Clint.

"I've got her, Phil," Agent Bryan stated suddenly, pulling open Natasha's door and offering her a hand out. Phil nodded his thanks even as he all but leapt out of his seat and moved to the back. The second SUV parked a moment later and two other men joined Phil and Dan to carry Clint quickly into the jet. Natasha and Todd followed, the trainer doing his best to keep Natasha from having to put any real weight on her injured leg. They hobbled up the ramp in time to see Dan pushing a needle that was attached to a small device with an empty vile at the center, into the vein on Clint's arm. He held it there as the empty vile slowly filled with Clint's blood. That done, he handed the hand held device off to a man Natasha recognized as Mark, who immediately moved to a laptop and attached the device to a cord. A few moments later he had what she recognized as the SHIELD database pulled up on the screen. A text box popped up that read 'Sample Uploaded' in red block letters.

Her attention was pulled away when she heard Clint's name mentioned.

"Barton!" Dan called sharply.

There was no response, not even a flicker.

"Phil should try," Natasha stated quietly. Several pairs of eyes fell on her, where she still stood supported by Agent Bryan. "If he was going to respond to anyone it would be Phil."

Coulson was already snatching Clint's hand into his own.

"Clint, come on kid, if you can hear me I need you to let me know."

There was nothing. The entire group deflated a little.

"John, hook him up to the heart monitor," Dan ordered. "Romanoff, let me get a look at you."

Natasha kept her eyes on her partner even as she carefully sat in one of the seats and Dan started taking her pulse, checking her pupils and general analyzing her condition. She watched Coulson move quickly to a bag and pull out a t-shirt and then snap something she didn't process at Mark, the smallest of the men. A few seconds later he was pushing a pair of folded cargo pants and a black t-shirt into her hands with a pair of boots resting on top of them.

She blinked dumbly at him.

"If we're going to do this, we need to go."

She nodded numbly and looked back at Clint. He was stretched out on his back on the floor of the jet. John was in the process of taping the IV bag to the side of the jet and then adjusting the oxygen mask over Clint's face. Clint didn't stir. He hadn't woken, hadn't even twitched in the short fifteen minutes since Coulson had busted into the prison and saved them.

"She's not looking good, Phil," Dan murmured to the older man as they watched Natasha stare almost blankly at Clint. "You saw her leg, how bad was it?"

"It wasn't good."

"It'll hold as long as I need it to," she stated quietly, tearing her eyes away from her archer to look at them. "Will he live?"

Coulson looked to Dan who sighed deeply.

"I've done what I can for now. Mark is running his blood sample through the SHIELD database, if the drug is in our system we'll find it. Hopefully he can figure out what they gave him and we can treat it."

"And if he can't figure it out?" Natasha asked softly, her green eyes boring into him with a coldness that made Dan swallow. It was as if she were daring him to count Clint out, to try and say he wouldn't make it. A glance at Phil showed the same challenge.

"You both know as well as I do that he'll fight this with everything he's got. But his vitals are bad and getting worse. If we can't figure out a way to treat the poison..." Dan shook his head. He couldn't give them false hope. Not when he didn't really have any hope himself.

He saw Romanoff close down, her eyes going hard and her expression becoming blank. She mechanically started pulling her fresh pants on, shakily standing to pull them up under her dress. Phil quickly made his way to Clint's side as Dan and the rest of the men turned their backs to let Natasha finish changing.

He pulled his agent's hand into his once again and leaned over him, sending John away with a look. He leaned closer and spoke in a whisper that no one would overhear.

"You don't give up, you understand?" he ordered sharply. "You are Clint Barton. You're as stubborn and as tough as they come. You never give up. You never give in. You always fight with everything you've got. So you fight now, Clint, and I'll fight too. Just stay with me."

Coulson, realizing painfully that since he was about to leave with Natasha, Clint might not survive until he got back, indulged in a moment of affection. Carefully resting his palm on Clint's hot forehead, he brushed his agent's hair back gently. Clint was a lot of things to him. His protégée, his agent, his best friend and his little brother. It was times like this though, times when Clint was barely hanging on, that he felt more like a son. Even though he wasn't old enough to ever be Clint's dad, he felt the weight of the kid's life on his shoulders. He felt the pain in his heart at the thought that he could lose him. The feeling that somewhere along the way this ornery, sarcastic, amazing kid had become the center of his world and Phil didn't know what he'd do if Clint didn't make it out of this one.

Natasha was suddenly standing next to them, using Phil's shoulder to help her lower herself down. She clasped her hand on top of Phil's, neither replacing his hold nor withholding her own. Clint was everything to both of them. Their feelings for the archer were vastly different, but neither less or more powerful than the other. If they lost him it would destroy them both.

Phil was deeply touched at the gesture, but not surprised. One of the things he respected most about Natasha was her respect for the brotherhood between him and Clint. He moved his other hand from Clint's hair to rest instead on top of hers. He squeezed her too cold hand gently and eased both of his hands away.

"I'll be in the car."

Natasha nodded, not watching him move away. She glanced at the rest of the men, all were purposefully  _not_  watching her. She leaned over Clint, putting her lips right next to his ear.

"If you give up on me  _now_ , after we've only just found each other, I will find your ass in hell and drag it back out. You fight this with everything you've got, understood?"

She didn't wait for the response she knew wasn't coming. Instead she drew back slightly, pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his warm forehead and pulled away completely.

"I'll come back soon, мой сокол, you better be here when I do."

Before she could struggle to stand Todd was there, offering her a hand. He helped her all the way out to the SUV and shut her in the passenger seat before climbing into the back. He arched his eyebrows at the look both Phil and Natasha gave him.

"What? You think I'm letting you two wander off alone? Nope. I'm tagging along to make sure nobody goes missing. Your little terrific trio has a bad habit of that."

* * *

Alex Moreno snapped her cell phone closed with a hard scowl. Her men at the police station weren't answering the phone. She hoped that meant they had finally gotten the nerve to deal with the problem. She glanced out the window of her car as they pulled to a stop on the tarmac. Her small private plane was waiting.

Eduardo climbed out and came around to open her door for her. She grabbed the silver briefcase resting on the seat next to her and stepped out of the car. Eduardo followed a step behind her as she approached the jet. She stepped briskly up the stairs and ducked through the door, turning to face the interior of the small jet.

Moreno froze and glared at the figure lounging easily in one of the plush seats at the very back of the jet.

Natasha glared right back.

"You just can't find competent help these days," Moreno sighed, facing the Black Widow confidently. Natasha huffed a slight laugh and smirked darkly.

"Now, now, you can't blame them because you didn't know who you were dealing with."

By the end of her response, Natasha's smirk was gone. In its place was the ice cold glare that many men and women had faced when whatever cover Natasha was playing faded away and the Black Widow took its place.

She stood slowly, refusing to show or acknowledge the pain in her leg. The wound was hidden, bandaged under the loose fitting cargo pants one of Coulson's men had lent her. She'd pulled her greasy hair, still stiff in places from hairspray, back into a messy ponytail. The t-shirt she wore was too big, one of Phil's, pulled hastily from his go-bag.

"Well," Moreno shrugged, "there was a lesson my father always tried to instill in me..."

She shifted slightly to her left, towards one of the large seats facing away from her.

"Oh yeah?" Natasha cocked her head a little. "What's that?"

"If you want something done right," Moreno's glare darkened, "you do it yourself."

With that she reached for something behind the chair, a gun hidden in the pocket. But before she even got her hand around it, Natasha was already moving. She took one running step, planted her hand on the back of the chair facing the one Moreno was reaching behind and launching her body over both of them. Her boots, also too big for her, slammed into the woman's chest, knocking her back. The briefcase in her hand went clattering to the floor.

Moreno brought the gun up and around and fired once. It clicked empty. Natasha shook her head patronizingly.

"Did you  _really_  think I hadn't found that?" she asked with a dark smirk.

She took a step forward and nearly lost her balance as her leg almost collapsed beneath her. She caught herself on the seat back and reached into the deep pocket of her cargo pants. She lifted out a handful of bullets and let them fall through her fingers onto the carpet of the jet.

Moreno stared at her.

She stared back.

Then she thought of Clint. Her hawk. Her hawk that was always so full of life and energy and was now dying because of this woman. She had stolen him from her. She had stolen her hawk.

Suddenly the pain in her leg didn't matter.

Natasha launched herself forward. She slammed a fist into Moreno's stomach and then hooked her elbow behind the woman's head, forcing her to double and then bringing her knee up into Moreno's stomach.

A fist, not necessarily strong, but not weak either, slammed into Natasha's thigh. Natasha hissed and pushed Moreno away, only to spin into an aerial roundhouse that sent Moreno crashing into the cockpit door. Natasha's head snapped to the side as Eduardo stepped into the jet. She twisted into the air for a second time, slamming her boot into the man's face and sending him flying backwards out of the jet door. She heard him land with a cry of pain on the tarmac below.

She caught Moreno's movement out of the corner of her eye as she clung to the back of a seat to keep herself upright. She moved at the last moment, grabbing the charging woman's shoulders and throwing her into the back of the same chair Natasha had been using for support. Moreno flipped backwards and landed with a crash on the other side.

Natasha stalked forward and slammed her boot into the woman's face and then pulled her up by the hair on the back of her head.

Moreno's eyes showed fear for the first time and Natasha took a moment to revel in it. This is what she did. She inspired fear.

"How did you find out about me?" she hissed angrily.

Moreno glared. Natasha twisted the hair in her hand tighter and slammed the heel of her hand into the woman's ribs. She felt one break and Moreno cried out.

"How did you find out about me?" Natasha demanded.

"I was warned that you would be coming," Moreno gasped.

Natasha smirked. For all her power and authority, Moreno was just as weak as Natasha expected.

"By who?"

"I don't know!"

"How did you know it was me?" Natasha snarled, wrapping her hand around Moreno's throat and squeezing just enough to show she was serious.

"You think I haven't heard of you?" Moreno scoffed. "I may not have known what you looked like, but I spotted you the moment you walked into that house."

Natasha frowned. Moreno had spotted her because she'd known to look. She hadn't spotted Clint.

"He's still alive you know," Natasha informed Moreno lowly. "My  _partner_  that you poisoned."

Moreno's eyes widened.

" _He_  was your partner?"

"Guess you didn't know as much as you thought," Natasha smirked.

"I knew you wouldn't be alone, I was told you'd have someone with you, but he was so  _average,_ so..."

"Not what you expected?" Natasha smirked. "Yeah, he has that effect." The smirk fell away. "Is there an antidote?"

Moreno glared, her eyes flicking to something at the front of the jet only briefly.

"No, you're little hawk is going to die."

"He'll find a way to survive," Natasha decided, needing that hope for reasons that had nothing to do with Moreno. "He's got a habit of exceeding expectations."

"You turned out to be a little more than I bargained for as well," Moreno spat.

"I told you, Moreno, you had no idea who you were dealing with."

She saw the flash of the blade and twisted Moreno's neck a second too late.

The knife sliced deeply across her abdomen as she tried to back out of the way. She stumbled. Her leg collapsed beneath her and she fell, crashing to the ground in an embarrassingly ungraceful heap. He hand gripped her thigh above the wound, her other pressed into the freshly bleeding wound on her stomach and she clenched her jaw, only to gasp out a slight whimper when her jaw reminded her it had been abused too.

A gleam of silver caught her eye and she cocked her head at the briefcase Moreno had dropped. A wave of curiosity swept through her as she remembered the telling flick of Moreno's eyes when Natasha asked about an antidote. With a surge of hope she started pulling herself towards it, wrapping her hands around anything within reach to use as an anchor to help her half crawl, half drag her body across the floor.

Her vision was wavering as she reached the case and pushed the release to open it.

There were five syringes in it and an empty space where one had been before. Two of the syringes had a clear liquid and one had a blue liquid. Natasha stared at it, hope soaring through her. She flinched when a shadow fell over her.

"It's just me. Moreno's husband's dead," Coulson soothed, crouching next to her. His eyes tracked the thick trail of blood leading away from Moreno's body to the spreading pool beneath Natasha.

"I think there's an antidote," she gasped out, a shaking hand hovering over the blue syringes.

Coulson's eyes moved to the syringes and he felt a wave of hope crash through him. It took every ounce of self control he had not to snatch up the case and run for the car right then. Instead, he forced himself to be rational.

"Even if it's not, maybe we can create one from this. Good work, Tasha."

She smiled weakly. Clint had a fighting chance now and that's more than he'd ever needed. She blinked as grey swiftly bled into her vision.

"Natasha?" Coulson called in concern. He reached to catch her when she listed bonelessly to the side. "Natasha? Can you hear me?"

Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and rapid. It seemed shock had finally decided to make its appearance. He felt for her pulse, weak and too slow. Quickly he reached to snap the briefcase shut. He grasped its handle with one hand. Then he pulled his agent into his arms, cradling her carefully against his chest as he stood. Her forehead lulled listlessly against his neck and he felt the moist clamminess of her skin.

As he carried her quickly off the jet and to the waiting truck and Todd who was already positioned behind the wheel, he realized how small she was. Small was never a term he'd ever think to associate with the Black Widow. But Natasha only three inches over five feet and she was lean and fit, giving her an almost petite look.

She seemed small in his arms now as he willed her to hold on as he felt her blood soaking into his shirt.

* * *

Even as the SUV screeched to a halt, Coulson knew something was wrong. He knew because before Todd could even get it into park, John was running towards them from the jet. Everything inside of Phil froze and he had the door open and was already halfway out as John got to them.

"He's crashing."

Phil was already sprinting towards the jet, silver briefcase clenched in his hand. He trusted Todd and John to take care of Natasha. He came up the ramp to see Dan staring pensively at Clint's heart monitor with his thumb hovering over the charge button on a portable defibrillator. The leads were already attached to Clint's now bare chest.

Coulson was on his knees next to them in the next moment, already snapping open the case.

"His heart is giving out. It'll hold rhythm for twenty to thirty seconds and then flat line again. He's fighting but..." Dan glanced at him and saw the syringes. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't know," Phil admitted, pulling a syringe filled with blue liquid out. "We don't even know if that blank spot is from what she gave him. We don't know if this will help or hurt."

He didn't know what to do. He held the syringe in a shaking hand, debating what choice to make.

"Phil," Dan drew his eyes to him, "it  _can't_  make it worse. If we don't do something now, he's not going to make it." _  
_

Phil held out the syringe.

"Do it."

He vaguely registered Todd and John carrying Natasha in and begin tending to her. He barely heard Todd ordering Kyle and Jack to go clear out Clint and Natasha's safe house and take their jet home. His eyes stayed pinned on the blue liquid as Todd pushed it into Clint's IV port. And then, just as the first of the blue liquid disappeared into Clint's body, the heart monitor hiccupped and than flat lined. And everything else faded away. All he could see was Clint and Dan, who was already reaching to charge the defibrillator.

"Come on, Clint," Coulson breathed.

The defibrillator reached its charge and Dan delivered the shock. The line on the heart monitor jumped, but then returned to its straight path.

"Don't give up," Phil continued to coach under his breath.

Dan shocked him again with the same result.

"Keep fighting."

Dan upped the charge and tried once more. The line jumped, and then started bouncing in an unsteady rhythm across the screen. Phil wasn't relieved yet. He and Dan continued to stare at the screen, waiting for it to falter.

But it didn't falter. It didn't disappear again. But it didn't get steady or stronger either. Five minutes later Phil felt like he could breathe again.

"He's not stable, but believe it or not this is an improvement," Dan sighed deeply.

"There's a SHIELD base in Vienna, get us there," Todd barked at Mark, who was already powering up the jet's engines.

"Take care of Natasha," Phil instructed Dan quietly as he settled more comfortably on the floor next to Clint.

Dan nodded and quickly moved across the small expanse to where John had already put an IV in place and was prepping her for a transfusion. At Dan's urging, John moved to the small cooler they'd hooked up to the jet's power system. It was stocked with a supply of both their blood types for this exact reason. John retrieved the appropriate bag and brought it back to Dan, who quickly started the transfusion and then set about patching up the Widow as best he could.

Phil watched from across the floor of the jet, and when he was satisfied Natasha was in Dan's capable hands, he turned his attention back to Clint. He rested his hand on Clint's bare forearm and silently willed him to fight. To always fight.

* * *

Phil hadn't meant to doze off. But two weeks of inhabiting infirmary chairs had been hell for his sleeping pattern and had left him exhausted.

It had taken a week before Clint and Natasha had been stable enough to be moved from the SHIELD infirmary in Vienna back to New York. Phil, after insisting they were kept in the same room, had split his time alternating whose bed he sat next to. He was ashamed to admit, he'd spent more time next to Clint than he had Natasha. He chalked it up to history and hoped Natasha wouldn't hold it against him if she ever found out.

It had taken three days of Clint switching between having the doctors convinced he would pull through and then just as convinced he wouldn't survive before his vitals finally leveled out. He'd held his own after that. His body, with the help of what was now a confirmed antidote, had been working tirelessly to fight the poison ever since. The doctors weren't sure when he'd wake up or what lasting effects the poison would have. But they'd assured Phil he would survive, that his vitals were growing stronger every day.

Natasha had developed a nasty infection, not from her bullet wound, but unpredictably from the knife wound on her stomach. It had wreaked havoc on her already weakened body and she'd nearly left them twice, but had fought her way back each time. She was fighting just as hard as Clint to make it back. And her fever had only just broken that afternoon. The doctors were optimistic now that she'd wake in the next few days and have a slow, but full recovery.

So Phil was left to wait. He'd nodded off around 2am only to flinch awake just forty minutes later. He looked around blearily, wondering what had woken him. Movement caught his eye. Clint's hand had shifted and was moving towards the oxygen cannula hooked under his nose. Phil looked down at his own hand, resting on the bed near where Clint's hand had been. Clint must have brushed him accidentally as he moved. The archer aborted the motion halfway there and let his hand drop wearily onto his chest.

"Clint?" Phil surged out of his chair, ignoring that he nearly knocked it on end, and leaned over his charge hopefully.

Bleary, exhausted, half-lidded blue grey eyes shifted to focus on him immediately. Phil was nearly overwhelmed by relief as he smiled down at Clint.

"Look who finally decided to stop sleeping on the job," he joked weakly, knowing his emotions were written all over his eyes and that Clint would have no trouble reading them. He saw Clint's hand lift slightly and caught it in his own obligingly. "You're okay," he assured gently. "You're going to be fine."

"'appen'd?" Clint barely breathed the question, his eyes already starting to drift closed only to be stubbornly forced open.

"You were poisoned," Phil explained carefully.

Clint blinked heavily and then confusion flashed openly across his face.

"P'soned?"

"By Moreno," Phil went on.

Clint frowned, which made Phil frown.

"D'd we g't him?" Clint asked wearily, his eyes already drifting closed again. Phil felt a shot of concern, but forced a smile as Clint pushed his eyes open one last time.

"Yeah," he assured. "Moreno's dead."

A moment later Clint was asleep, his breathing even and calm. Phil sat back, not releasing his hold on Clint's hand.  _Did we get him?_  The question repeated itself in his mind several times.  _Him_. Clint, himself, had been the one to tell Phil Alex Moreno was a woman. Moreno should have been a  _her_  in Clint's mind, not a him.

* * *

The next time Clint woke, four hours later, he was markedly more coherent. He just opened his eyes, suddenly aware and sought Phil out with his gaze immediately.

"Hey," Phil greeted warmly. He had convinced himself that Clint had just been confused earlier, a natural byproduct to a two week coma.

"What happened?" Clint asked quietly, shifting higher on his pillows with a groan. Phil wordlessly helped him sit up a little more.

"You were poisoned by Moreno," Phil repeated. He hadn't really expected Clint to remember their previous conversation.

"Poisoned?"

Phil nodded and frowned when Clint did.

"We found the antidote, though. You're going to be fine."

He watched Clint reach to press his hand against his forehead as if his head hurt.

"Where's Natasha?" Clint demanded suddenly, his tone confused.

"She's right over there, to your right."

Clint looked immediately, his frown deepening when he saw the state she was in.

"What happened to her?"

Phil was now watching him very carefully.

"You don't remember?" he asked cautiously.

Clint rubbed his hand down to press against his eyes.

"She's hurt?"

"Yes." Phil waited as Clint continued to keep his eyes covered.

"Is she okay?"

"She will be."

Silence reigned for a few tense moments.

"I don't remember," the archer suddenly announced.

"Remember what?" Phil asked with growing concern.

"What happened. I don't remember what happened, Phil." Clint tone was agitated now.

"Okay, calm down," Phil stood and moved to sit on the bed next to Clint's hip. "Take a deep breath and think back. Do you remember anything that happened in Budapest?"

Clint was silent for a moment.

"I needed to find her. I remember that I needed to find her. That I was worried about her when I did because she was hurt."

"Good, what else?"

Clint was silent again and Phil could almost hear his mind straining to grasp at memories Phil was growing increasingly certain weren't there.

"Barney," Clint stated suddenly, heartbreakingly.

"He wasn't real," Phil assured hastily.

"I know," Clint pulled his hand away from his eyes to look at Phil. "But I remember believing he was."

Phil wondered if Clint knew his hand had gone to rest over the old knife scar Barney had marked him with. He wanted that vulnerable, devastated look out of Clint's eyes.

"What else?" he urged.

He was horrified when the devastation was suddenly joined by guilt.

"Names. I saw the names."

"What names?" But Phil was pretty sure he already knew.

"From my book. I saw the people I'd killed...why was I seeing them? Why was I seeing Barney?"

"You were hallucinating," Phil explained calmly. "It was a side effect of the poison. You told me about it on the phone. Do you remember talking to me on the phone?"

Clint shook his head, his eyes wide and looking more vulnerable than they had a moment ago.

"What else  _do_  you remember?" Phil asked quickly.

"Pain."

"What else?" Because  _that_ was something he didn't want Clint dwelling on.

Clint shook his head.

"I..." he brought his hand to cover his eyes again, "I only have little flashes. I was with Natasha. We were in a cell." He shook his head again. "I remember feeling afraid. Afraid because I knew I was forgetting what was real and what wasn't. She helped with that."

"Anything else?" Phil urged soothingly.

"I don't know." Clint shook his head and uncovered his eyes again looking at Coulson like he thought he could just wave his hand and fix it. "Why don't I remember?"

"I don't know, Clint, but you're okay. You're alive and you're functioning. We'll take it as a win for now, okay?"

Clint nodded, accepting the assurance.

"You're exhausted. Try to get back to sleep."

Clint nodded again and let Phil shift his pillows so he was laying mostly flat again.

"Don't go anywhere okay?" Clint whispered so lowly that Phil barely heard him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Phil promised.

He didn't know why Clint's expression shifted oddly at the phrase before it smoothed and sleep over took him once again. He didn't know that the hallucination of Clint's brother had promised the same thing. He didn't know how different the same words sounded to Clint when they came from the two different sources. He didn't know that the same words that had inspired dread when uttered by Barney, did nothing but sooth and comfort when spoken by him.

* * *

The first thing Natasha was aware of was the smell. An infirmary, definitely an infirmary. She hated the smell of these places. There were crisp, not quite soft, sheets surrounding her and the mattress wasn't somewhere between hard and about as soft as a stack of cardboard.

Opening her eyes was harder than she'd anticipated, but after a few tries she managed it. The room was mostly dark, a dim light provided by the open bathroom door. She rolled her head to the side and blinked.

Coulson was watching her calmly, but his eyes were tired and deeply concerned.

"Welcome back," he greeted warmly. "You had us worried."

"What happened?" she asked groggily.

"You passed out, went into shock from losing more blood than you could afford and managed to develop a nasty infection," Coulson reported easily. "But we knew you were too stubborn to let that keep you down."

"How long have I been out?"

"A little over two weeks."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Like I said," Coulson sighed, "you had us worried."

She rested her head back against the pillow. Over two weeks. Clint must have been beside himself worrying. Her thoughts screeched to a halt.

 _Clint_. Clint who had been poisoned and barely clinging to life last time she'd seen him.

"Clint?" she sat up suddenly only to have her vision swim.

Coulson gently pushed her back down.

"He's fine."

Coulson nodded at something off to her left. She turned her head to see the object of her thoughts curled on his side on another hospital bed, facing away from her with an IV snaking towards him from a pole next to his bed.

"It was touch and go for the first few days, but then the antidote you found started doing its job. He held his own after that. He only woke up two days ago," Coulson explained quietly. "He's weak as a kitten right now, but don't tell him I said that. He spent most of the last two days sitting next to your bed. He fell asleep in the chair last night and the nurses threatened to tie him to his bed if he didn't get some real rest. They hit him with a mild sedative before I could stop them. He's going to be pissed when he wakes up."

She smiled warmly, her eyes still on his back. That sounded like Clint.

"And he's okay?" she asked softly. Hearing Coulson talk was comforting. It was normal. It made her feel like everything would be okay.

"He will be. Whatever the hell it was they gave him did a number. He's got some pretty serious gaps in his memory about what happened."

"How serious of gaps?" Natasha asked in concern.

"He doesn't remember much, mostly feelings and generalities. And of course he managed to remember that he was seeing Barney and the people he killed on contract. As if he wasn't tortured enough about both of those."

Natasha could relate to the worry in Coulson's tone.

"Will he ever remember everything?" she asked.

"They don't know."

Natasha sighed, thinking of the conversations they had as they'd waited for Coulson. She hoped he remembered those or at least parts of them. She suddenly wanted to hear his voice, see his eyes and actually see their color instead of the blackness of his over dilated pupils. She wanted to hear her name whispered like a prayer across his lips, telling her everything was going to be okay.

Coulson seemed to read her thoughts.

"He needs his rest and so do you. He'll be here next time you wake up," the handler promised.

Natasha nodded, keeping her eyes on Clint as she let herself settle farther into the pillows. The short time she'd been awake had exhausted her. Her leg and her stomach twinged in pain and she frowned. She heard rustling near Coulson and then she felt the weightless relief of morphine rush into her system.

Sleep came easily after that.

* * *

When she woke again, Coulson was gone, but Clint was there. His feet were propped on her bed and he was slouched down in his chair, his chin resting on his chest. He was breathing deeply as he slept. Natasha shifted, weighing the need to hear his voice against his need for rest.

Ever tuned to her, he suddenly stirred.

He raised his head and blinked blearily. He was still pale and still looked exhausted, but she could see the blue grey of his eyes clearly and it was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.

She watched her conscious state register slowly and then he was springing to his feet.

"Tasha!"

"Hey," she greeted warmly, careful not to move too suddenly when her leg suddenly twinged.

"God damn, it's good to see you awake. I wanted to be here when you woke up the first time, but they drugged me into unconsciousness. I raised holy hell when I found out I'd slept through you wake up. And as you can see," he held up both his arms, demonstrating their lack of needles, "I'm now IV free."

She wondered if that  _freeness_  was doctor approved or Clint approved.

"Are you sure you don't still need one?" she frowned.

"They've done all they can," he shrugged, "I just have to build my strength back up."

"Any after effects?" she asked quietly, already feeling tired again.

"I get a few twinges every now and then, but mostly I'm just tired. And pissed off because I can't remember a lot of things about what happened. But we can talk about that later, how are you feeling? Are you in pain?"

"A little," she sighed, longing to reach out and take his hand where it rested next to hers, their knuckles barely brushing. But there were prying eyes in the SHIELD infirmary and she didn't want anybody prying into their business.

"I told them to start easing you off of the pain meds," Clint revealed.

Natasha smiled.

"Thank you."

She hated how drugs clouded her thoughts and made her lethargic. She was grateful Clint had taken that into account and acted on her behalf.

"Get some sleep, Natasha. I'll be here when you wake up."

There it was. Her name whispered like a prayer on his lips. Natasha fell asleep with a slight smile on her lips the feeling of his fingers brushing across the back of her hand.

* * *

"So what exactly do you remember?" Natasha asked from where she sat on her infirmary bed. Clint was sitting cross legged at the foot of it, her injured leg stretched out next to him and the other curled under her. Her bed table was between them and their dinner sat on top of it, secretly smuggled in by Clint, who had spent the better part of the evening cooking her favorite Russian dishes.

It had been a week since she'd woken up, three weeks now since Budapest. Clint's strength was returning more quickly every day. He was still tired a lot, but she thought that was more because he hadn't gone a night without dreaming about his old contract days or Barney than the effects of the poison. He'd been sleeping on the spare infirmary bed in her room ever since he was released five days ago. So she knew for a fact that he hadn't slept through the night since she'd woken up for the second time.

This was the first time she'd brought up what happened though. They hadn't had much time alone accept for at night and she didn't think after a nightmare was the best time to ask him about it. But tonight they were alone. The nurses had already made their last round for the night, Natasha far enough on the road to recovery to be free from their ministrations throughout the night, Coulson was busy with something he wasn't willing to discuss yet.

He'd already debriefed Clint before she woke up and then debriefed her separately when she was strong enough. Something she'd told him had made him visibly tense and he'd been making himself fairly scarce since.

She watched Clint shift a little, careful not to jostle her leg where it was resting on pillows next to him. He shrugged as he answered.

"Not much. I remember Barney and seeing a lot of the people I took contracts on. But mostly just a lot of pain and confusion. I remember being focused on finding you. That was my driving force and what kept me going. But other than that," he shook his head, "I don't really remember much."

Natasha nodded.

"What about after you found me? Do you remember anything after that?"

His brow furrowed in contemplation.

"A gunfight?"

 _Or several._ Natasha mentally added.

"I remember being worried about you, for your leg I guess." He eyed her thigh where it was hidden under her blankets. She could tell by the look on his face he didn't actually remember anything about the injury other than what he knew of it now.

"Anything else?" she prodded.

He frowned, frustration growing in his eyes.

"I remember telling you why I saved you and I remember your voice, talking to me about something else, but I can't remember anything you said."

Natasha hoped her disappointment didn't show on her face. He didn't remember what she'd told him. About what he meant to her or about the Red Room.

"Sorry," he apologized softly.

"It's not your fault," Natasha assured gently. She knew he'd been straining for days to remember something,  _anything_ , more than he already did. A few things had come back, like parts of their conversation about why he saved her. Other things had stayed stubbornly beyond his memory's reach. "I'll just have to tell you again sometime."

He smiled slightly and nodded.

Natasha watched him spoon some of his food into his mouth and chew. They would always remember Budapest differently, she supposed. She remembered what he didn't. She remembered facing a small army of Moreno's lieutenants and bought off police officers. She remembered odds that seemed insurmountable, but somehow, they'd survived them. She remembered watching Clint argue with a brother that wasn't there and seeing the fear in his eyes when he realized what he was doing.

He didn't remember any of that and probably never would.

* * *

"Still can't sleep?" Natasha asked quietly as she limped towards the edge of the roof where Clint was sitting. He glanced over his shoulder at her and immediately jumped up to help her sit without putting too much pressure on her leg.

"Are you supposed to be using crutches?"

"I don't need them."

"You were released from the infirmary  _yesterday_."

"I  _don't_  need them," Natasha reiterated firmly.

Clint held his hands up in defeat and dropped down next to her, silently vowing to make sure he helped her back down the stairs.

"You didn't answer my question," Natasha pointed out. She was too used to his deflection techniques to fall for them now.

Clint sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair and then down his face.

"If it's not Barney, then it's the people I killed on contracts. I don't even want to try and sleep anymore."

Natasha frowned sympathetically and reached to squeeze his hand.

"I think I know how to help with at least part of that."

They both turned to see Phil approaching them, hands stuffed deeply in his jacket pockets.

"How's that?" Clint asked with an arched eyebrow.

Without another word Phil withdrew his hands from his pockets and in his left was Clint's ledger. Clint's ledger that he'd given Phil over six and a half years ago and told him to let him know when he'd made it right. Clint's ledger, full of the names that still haunted him even after all this time.

"Is that what I think it is?" Natasha asked softly.

Phil nodded, not surprised Clint had told Natasha about it. Clint, for his part, just stared, wide eyed and slightly slack jawed. There was a vulnerability in his blue-grey gaze that Phil didn't see often, but he'd seen it six and a half years ago when Clint handed him this little book and told him to keep it until it was made right.

"It's time for this to stop haunting you," Phil stated quietly, still holding the ledger up in his left hand.

"I don't understand," Clint managed to force out through a suddenly tight throat. He made his way to his feet and turned to face Coulson, holding out a hand to help Natasha up almost absently.

"You told me, a little over six and half years ago that you wanted me to hold on to this and to let you know when you made it right. This is me, telling you that you've made it right, Clint."

Clint was already shaking his head so Phil forged on.

"You've made it right with all the lives that you've saved since then," he glanced meaningfully at Natasha, who nodded in agreement. "Including hers. And including mine. Lives you saved without a thought about your own well being or safety. If that doesn't make it right, I don't know what ever could. What happened in Budapest showed me that it's time for you to leave this part of your life behind. You'll always remember and you'll always have those regrets, but it's time to stop letting it haunt you. It's time to leave this," he shook the little book slightly in demonstration, "behind and destroy the hold it's had on you."

Coulson produced a lighter from his pocket.

"Leave it behind Clint."

With shaking hands, Clint reached out to take the book, its weight still painfully familiar even after all these years. He took the lighter next and stared at the two objects. Then he raised wide eyes, shining eyes to Coulson, who reached out and gripped his shoulder in a show of support. His eyes found Natasha next and she smiled, her own eyes brighter than normal. She nodded in approval and his eyes went back to the book.

He swallowed thickly.

"You've made it right," Coulson whispered firmly, not releasing his grip on Clint's shoulder.

With a trembling hand Clint sparked the lighter to life and hesitated only a moment more before holding the lighter to the corner of the book. It took a moment to light, but then the pages were burning brightly and he crouched slowly to rest the flaming book on the ground, watching the pages curl and the carefully printed names melt away.

Natasha's hand wove into his hair and he still felt Coulson's hand on his shoulder from where the man had crouched next to him.

The weight that hadn't really lifted when he'd handed that book to Coulson years ago on a jet home from the Andes Mission, seemed to fade away right along with the book. He still felt like he'd never really make up for what he did. He knew he'd probably always feel that way. Maybe he'd even still dream those names. But something shifted in him. Some darkness that had been clinging to his soul slipped away because whether or not he ever thought he'd done enough. The two most important people in his life believed he had.

And what they believed could be enough for now.

* * *

"That was when I suggested we start making safe houses of our own," Natasha explained quietly from where they were eating lunch on the roof.

"We were going to start in Budapest?" Clint asked around a mouthful of a very meaty sandwich.

She nodded.

"I guess Budapest will have to wait though."

"I'm sure we'll make it back one day. We'll just start at the next city one of us gets sent to," Clint shrugged.

Natasha smiled at that thought and nodded, though she knew she still had a ways to go before she was sent on another mission. Her leg was healing nicely, but she still couldn't put all her weight on it yet.

They both looked up suddenly when Phil strode across the roof towards them.

"We need to talk."

"What's wrong?" Clint frowned.

"What's going on," Natasha asked carefully, accepting Clint's help to stand.

"When you told me that Moreno had said someone had warned her you were coming, I started an unofficial investigation."

"What?" Clint frowned.

"The only people that knew you were coming were Hill, Fury, me, and the Council. I had a tech that owed me a favor tear apart Moreno's computer. One of our teams recovered it after we moved on her operations and her house in Madrid. He found an encrypted email that had no sender and seemed untraceable. All it said was that "The Black Widow and Hawkeye are coming for you in Budapest." He found evidence of her  _extensive_ research into the Black Widow and she managed to uncover your name," Phil told them. "But Clint wasn't so easy for her to trace. Where you, Natasha, have always been in the spot light, he's always been in the shadows. Even now, nobody really knows what he looks like accept for Fourie, who, thank god, we found no trace of contact with."

"You said the email was untraceable?" Natasha questioned.

"I said it  _seemed_  untraceable. But the sender obviously didn't expect SHIELD to be the one investigating. My tech was able to trace it back to the sender."

"Who sent it?" Clint demanded.

Phil looked suddenly years older than he was.

"A member of the Council. You've met him several times but I don't think you've ever been told his name. The email was sent by a man named Matthew Williams."

Clint's eyes widened suddenly and he paled.

"Did you say Williams?"

"What is it?" Phil demanded.

Clint ran a shaking hand over his jaw.

"Does Matthew Williams have any children?"

"He had a daughter. She was killed while studying overseas. The investigation was strictly need-to-know. Not even Fury was read in. The details of her murder were never revealed. Her name was..."

"Brianna." Clint interrupted, paling a few more shades.

"How did you know that?" Natasha asked, but she was afraid she already knew.

"I took a contract on a young woman named Brianna Williams seven years ago," Clint revealed.

"Could it be tied to you?" Phil asked even though he knew the answer to that.

"Of course it could, I put an arrow through her heart." Clint paced away, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face. "All this time, he knew. He knew it was me that killed her." Clint shook his head and turned back to them. "He's been trying to kill me ever since."

"Williams has a lot of pull in the Council. It wouldn't take much more than his say-so to poison them against you," Phil explained. "And you, Natasha, they didn't like from the beginning. They've never really been on board with you being part of SHIELD."

"So Williams saw an opportunity for a two-for-one special and tipped Moreno off," Natasha deduced.

Clint had moved over to the edge of the roof, staring pensively out into the bright day. Coulson shared a look with Natasha and then moved to join him.

"All this time, I wondered why they hated me so much. Now I find out I deserve it."

"No," Coulson denied. "You've paid your debt, Clint."

"Not to Williams," Clint scoffed. "I took his daughter, Phil. How can I fault him for wanting me dead?"

"You were just the bullet in the gun, Clint. Whoever hired you for that hit is the one that pulled the trigger. Williams just wants someone to blame."

"Well he's found someone."

"What are we going to do about it?" Natasha asked as she came to stand with them.

"Convince him to shift his blame to where it belongs," Coulson decided.

"How do you suggest we do that?" Clint frowned.

"We find the man that ordered the hit in the first place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Budapest
> 
> Is it just me or are my final chapters getting longer and longer? 
> 
> I tried to lay it out with Natasha's thoughts, but I'll put it here too just to cover my bases. Why did the alien invasion remind her of Budapest? Insurmountable odds, Clint had been mentally screwed with. Done. That's all the connection I created. Not a whole lot, I know, but it was enough for me to be a happy little author. I hope it was enough for you as the readers because that's what really matters. And I mean honestly, its not like they'd have faced another alien invasion in Budapest to compare the experience with...
> 
> Why Clint remembered it differently, I should think was obvious.
> 
> Here's the summary for the next story which will have some serious Clint and Coulson bromance :D
> 
> "Croatia"
> 
> Coulson wasn't sure how it happened. One second he was being closed in on by their target and his crew, the next Clint was dropping guys with his arrows and purposefully drawing attention to himself and his position. Now they were separated. Both on the run and communicating with faulty equipment. But they were both alive, for now, and uncaptured, for now. He supposed they were already off to a better start than most missions. *Pre-Avengers*Pre-Natasha*

**Author's Note:**

> End of Chapter 1
> 
> For those of you that have been wondering when Coulson started accepting their relationship...here you go :)
> 
> This story, as usual, is complete and you can expect daily morning updates. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Here's your preview
> 
> "Romanoff," Phil started only to trail off.
> 
> She glanced at him curiously.
> 
> He started again.
> 
> "I know I haven't seemed supportive of you two," he stated bluntly. "I'm sorry for that. But I just want you to know that I trust you."
> 
> Her eyebrows rose in surprise. If he meant what she thought he meant, it might have been the kindest thing he'd ever said to her. His next words confirmed it.
> 
> "I trust you with him."


End file.
